The Companion
by Ahmerst
Summary: Having had all his little buddies stripped from him after the fall of the USSR, Russia is all kinds of lonely. He rectifies the situation by kidnapping America for company. Eventual Rus/Ame. Also, there's no torture or super psycho Russia in this.
1. Chapter 1

America laughed into the night air of the new year. The streets glimmered with spots of confetti that had been tossed out a few nights previous, a crisp breeze swept through the streets. Everything felt fresh and wonderfully clean. The USSR had fallen for good, and citizens of all nations across the world rejoiced.

There had been so many faces, happy, crying with joy, elated in their deserved freedom. America strolled through the empty park as he recalled the flood of emotions that had resulted. And with such perfect timing the fall had come, ushering in a new year where people had _hope_.

Smiling to himself, he pulled a clear baggy of goldfish crackers out of his pocket before sitting on a park bench. First, their little tails were nipped off, then their bodies consumed whole. America's smile turned to a full on beam in the darkness, a growing, happy warmth causing him to believe that he could take on the rest of the world's problems now, banish them as easily as he banished little cheddar fish to his stomach.

Russia's morbid expression came to his mind, and he laughed again, loud and booming. He had looked _pathetic_. In the days of the new year America had only seen him once, during the yearly meeting the nations held to discuss their projects and objectives for the year to come.

When it came time for Russia to speak, his sole response had been a low grunt. No one pressed him for more. America had been very tempted to, though.

Something about the twist of Russia's lips, whether they were up or down America could not tell, had caused America's mind to form a barrage of mean-spirited jabs. But he refrained, knowing that England would throw a folder or two at his face if he spoke.

America continued to muse on the subject of Russia's presence at the meeting as he closed his eyes, head tilting back to rest on the wooden planks of the bench. He visualized Russia's face again and again, deciding that it had been a kind of smiling frown upon his lips. Russia could do impossible things like that.

America continued to pick at the mental image he had of Russia on that day. Russia had been shaking, his shoulders trembling, but there was nothing fearful or worried about the movements. It looked to America as if he had the shakes of one who has an amazing idea they are attempting to keep under wraps, but their body is desperately trying to betray them.

He opened his eyes and frowned. Russia really hadn't looked funny at all that day. Not apologetic, not scary, but... something so entirely different that it made America's heart quake to think about it.

Shaking his head of the troubling thoughts, America opened his eyes and looked around. It was too late for anyone to be out, that was why he had come. The stillness of the air and the vast emptiness of the park in the night was a comfort to him. Or at least, it usually was.

Now all America wanted was to be talking to someone, _anyone_, if only to find a new thread of thought to follow.

The flood of sweeping headlights powered along the street, and America lazily watched the path it illuminated. He wondered if it was a kindred spirit driving along, sharing the same love of the night. It would be too weird to flag the driver down and try to be friendly, but America hummed happily to himself at the thought of doing so.

Once the car had pulled around the corner, America returned the remaining goldfish to his pocket, replacing them with a small book of crossword puzzles. He glanced through the pages, most of them half-filled, some of them completely finished. None that he hadn't already started and gotten stumped with.

The flicker of wild eyes caught America's vision. He peered into the distance, squinting from where the glint had come from. They had been fleeting, the eyes, like those of an animal that had had a flashlight shone on them. America figured it must be a stray dog.

He wasn't terribly_ big_ on stray dogs. They had huge mouths, and even larger bodies. It was always a possibility that they would bite him, and while he knew it wasn't as if a simple animal could kill him, he didn't relish how much pain an attack would probably bring.

And yet America couldn't bring himself to simply leave. The poor creature had to be hungry, and most certainly cold. Chances were it would like a few crackers to help stave off its hunger. America took his last few goldfish out and sprinkled them on the ground, proud of himself for being such a stand-up citizen.

He stood and took a few steps away from the bench, admiring the small fish that swam about the pavement. They would make a good dinner for a dog, or at least a decent snack. America began to briskly stride away from the blotch of orange, deciding to watch the creature approach from a distance.

He soon situated himself between two birch trees, anxiously scratching at the bark with his nails as he waited for the dog. Sap began to adhere itself to his fingers and palms, and he distractedly began to rub his hands on his pants, cursing the stickiness of it all.

When he looked back to his bench, the dog was there. Pale and hunched, frighteningly large for an animal. It had dark fur around its legs, a white mane trailing from its neck. America marveled at its interesting markings momentarily, hands still slapping at his legs.

Then it stood, crushing the crackers beneath the heel of its foot.

An astonished swoon wrapped around America as the the creature reared up, no longer dog-like in appearance, but instead a beastly tower of a man. What he had originally taken for a mane was truly a scarf, the dark coloring of the legs, military issued boots.

A hand flew from his pant leg to his mouth, and America bit down fiercely on the webbing between thumb and index finger to stifle a startled cry. It was _Russia_. Hell, that didn't even _begin_ to explain the wrongness of the situation. Russia, in New York, at an ungodly hour of the night, _following America_.

Upon the realization that Russia stalking him, America thrust himself back and away from the birch trees in surprise, only for his head to collide with a tree behind him. White streaked across his vision in thick lines as he flailed momentarily. He gritted his teeth against the burst of pain. The world faded, zoned a bit, before America's mind kicked into gear.

Everything came flooding back into focus, the shapes in the dark became sharp and clear images where before they had been blocky outlines. America could feel the rough gnarls of the tree behind him, the frigid bite of air against his skin, and smell the musky odor of the surrounding grounds.

Russia was facing in his direction. _He knows, he knows and I am so dead right now,_ America groaned inside his head. There were no night critters bustling about, and he must have thrashed a bit when he backed up into the tree. He was sure to be found out.

Immediately his eyes were darting about, searching for an easy escape route. America wasn't even going to try and act as if Russia wasn't traipsing after him in the middle of the night. He was sure to have a bone to pick, and America preferred that his own limbs stay unbroken for as long as possible.

Everywhere he looked there was a blockade. Tall, wiry fences too big to quickly scale, concrete walls that provided no grip for his numbing hands. He had to take into account how far he was from home, as well. It was a good fifteen minute walk to the park, which meant he was at least a mile away.

He'd have to run, run like a wild creature. There was no way he could escape without bolting through the open. Maybe he could zigzag like so many prey animals did. No, _no_. He wasn't anyone's prey. He was a hunter, strong, courageous, unafraid of the unknown. He wouldn't prance about on the grass and paved paths in an attempt to shrug off Russia. That would only make him look like a world class idiot. A drunk one, at that.

Russia probably wasn't that fast of a runner, anyway. He had long legs, but only in proportion to the rest of his body. Like a draft horse, sturdy and steady over long distances with a ridiculous amount of power, but not necessarily speedy.

America, on the other hand, fancied himself a kind of thoroughbred. A sleek and well-trained racehorse that could hurdle any steeple and sprint across the ground beneath him with only the slightest effort. Yet his speed and presumed grace would be useless if a certain lead pipe honed in on his kneecap. Knowing Russia, he could throw that thing like a boomerang.

America continued to weigh his options, or really, lack of them. His eyes moved back to the bench where Russia was.

Except he wasn't there anymore.

With a great deal of self control, America refrained from purposefully bashing his head repeatedly against the trees. He was pretty sure he'd start crying over his own stupidity at any second. To let Russia out of his sight, to get lost in his own decision making instead of focusing on the immediate present, was a terrible decision now that he looked back on it.

He scanned the park grounds again, looking for any hint of his follower. Nothing. Not a trace of pale hair, nor dark boot, only the blackness of the night. America's vision stretched, tightened as his adrenaline rose. His surroundings looked almost flattened, his heart seized violently in his chest.

Through the haze of his panic, America had the sense to close his eyes and listen. He strained for the crinkle of dried leaf underfoot, the snapping of twigs, for the rustle of fabric as its owner moved. Only the thrumming of blood rushing through veins and beat of his own heart met America's ears.

Minutes dragged by as America waited, still listening intently for Russia to spring upon him. His eyes pried themselves open as the thump of his heart calmed. He peeked about, fully expecting to see the glint of a metal pipe as it came arcing towards his face.

Only darkness greeted his eyes, and yet he was still convinced Russia was lurking close by. America began to actively scout him out as stealthily as he could, peering around trees and peeking through bushes. Panic turned to curiosity as America continued to find no clues pointing to another presence. Had the other man only _looked_ like Russia?

America stretched his arms above his head as he yawned. He checked his watch. Almost 3 in the morning. It seemed feasible to him that his tired mind had simply been playing tricks on him. But he was sure he had seen another person, just... probably not Russia.

Considering how cold it was, there was nothing suspicious if someone chose to wore a scarf to keep warm. The boots, well, maybe they had been from a military surplus store. They were certainly sturdy and long lasting. It wasn't suspicious for one to want footwear that would hold up for a long time. As for the pale hair, anyone could have that fair a shade if they went to a salon.

Slightly emboldened by the results of his reasoning, America was sure it was a run of the mill oddball who liked to crush crackers and roam empty parks. If by chance the man did decide to try and jump him, America knew he could easily defend himself, or make a break for it.

Zipping his worn jacket up to the collar, America forced himself to get a move on. He was more anxious than anything now, wanting only to run along home and smack the redial button on his phone. Any voice to talk to would be enough for him.

His shoes slapped against the pavement as he briskly covered ground, the odd bit of gravel scuffing against his soles. He turned the corner, following the same path the car he had seen previously took. Perhaps whoever had been driving it might still be around, and he could chat them up for a few minutes in order to settle his hackles

The street was dotted with parked cars, all of them dark and unremarkable in the dim flicker of street lamps. America slowed his pace as he passed them, glancing inside one after another as he made his way. He patted the hoods down, feeling for the warmth of a recently driven car.

Towards the end of the lane, ticking, snapping sounds caught his ear. The telltale noises of a cooling engine. The first flutters of solid relief passed over America's heart as he peered into the car, knowing there would be no one within, but needing to look anyway.

The interior dashboard was coated with sleek, unmarred leather. A few recent-looking newspapers littered the passenger seat, topped with several rags, some of which showed light stains. America frowned as he continued to scope out the insides, noting with a hint of sadness a heavy gray blanket strewn across the backseat along with a fluffed pillow. Whoever owned the car probably slept out of it.

But if the car served as sleeping quarters, they should have been in use at the moment. Chills slid down America's back as he straightened up. He started to regret taking the road he was on, something about it started to make him feel corralled,_ herded_.

A blurred form bounded across America's path, and a strangled gasp escaped his throat. The creature whirled around to look at him, large, glinting eyes. _A cat_. America stomped his foot, frustrated that he had been alarmed by a small animal. The feline fled at the sight of his raised foot.

"Serves you right," he grumbled. "Sneaking up on unsuspecting heroes like that."

Behind America, a polite cough sounded, the kind one makes to attract attention to themselves. Before he could so much as take a breath, an arm curled around his midsection in a vice-like grip that hauled him backwards, holding him tight to his attacker.

America cried out in surprise and instinctively began to struggle, his elbows jabbing in back of him, searching to land a blow. A wet rag snaked over America's lower face. He flailed recklessly about in an attempt to get it off, jerking from side to side as best he could, refusing to take in air.

America was dragged backwards without warning, slammed down against the hood of the settling car. An elbow, not his own, connected with the middle of his back, causing him to cry out in pain before quickly shutting his mouth again.

His lungs burned from lack of oxygen, screaming, frigid pain filling them instead. He wouldn't breath. He couldn't, it wasn't an option. But America's body gave up before his mind did, relenting in its fight to get free, opting instead to gasp like a fish out of water.

Inky black trails dripped before America's eyes with his first intake of breath. His body loosened, slumped, twisted as it slid across the metal hood. Again he felt an arm wrapping around him, but it was distant, holding him from some far off place.

His being was skewed from his body, infinitesimally at first, but more so as he discovered he was being lifted. His mind was left on the pavement, duly noting the sound of a car door opening, while his body was unceremoniously laid across the backseat. A hand slid behind his head, raising it momentarily. When it pulled away, what America's addled consciousness thought might be a pillow took its place.

With what little strength remained in his body, America raised his own hand to swipe the cloth away. It connected with an arm, which effortlessly brushed him aside. America allowed his hand flop down and slurred out a protest, eyelids flickering as he struggled to let the other man know he really needed his brain back as soon as possible.

A faint, garbled voice responded as the world melted, churning slowly until it became solid sheet of black. With a sigh of finality, America gave himself up to the darkness.

_A/N:_

_Honestly, I have never used to upload any of my stories before. I apologize if something goes terribly wrong and the format turns into a bunch of tiny chanting heathens or something similar. This story is already written out to chapter 6, but since I am new to I might be slow to upload them (once a week or so?). I also upload weekly on my livejournal ( .com ) along with my other stories._

_I hope you enjoy what I have written so far, and if not, then I thank you for taking the time to give this a chance.  
_


	2. Chapter 2

America stretched languidly beneath warm covers, curling his back into a delicate arch, taking the first deep breath of the new day. He coughed as the breath hitched in his throat, grating and raw. He found the insides of his mouth swollen and dry, his tongue like wire mesh.

He heaved himself into an upright position and clutched the sheets until his hacking fit had passed. His eyes remained unopened. The morning, there was something distinctly wrong with it. The usual fiery beams of sunlight that kicked his mind awake at dawn weren't shining, their warm caress absent from America's skin.

With a dramatic sigh and a sputter, America pinched the bridge of his nose and sniffled weakly. His mind was sluggish, processing at a painfully slow pace. He was almost painfully aware of his brains. Not that they were doing anything besides taking up space. They were crammed uncomfortably into his head, useless as a chess board with no pieces.

He opened his eyes and looked to the window. There was a wall where it should have been. Lazily crawling out of bed, thoughts still half perched in sleep, America ambled to where the window should have been, assuming he was dreaming.

His foot snagged along the way, sending him hurtling to the floor face-first. The impact snapped him into full wakefulness as he struggled back to his feet, touching a hand under his nose for any blood, relieved when he found none. That habit of leaving clothes on the floor was quite literally going to be his downfall.

He swished his foot backwards to kick the garment aside, but winced as it instead connected with something much more solid. Momentarily forgetting his quest to find out how he had misplaced his window, America turned around.

It was a box. Cardboard, half-empty, the inside littered with small knick knacks and bric-a-brac. His head slowly tilted to the side, attempting to make sense of it. None of it looked like it belonged to him. He gazed about for an explanation, only to be met with several dozen more boxes.

Some were precariously strewn about the room, others stacked in careful heaps. They were filled with a bevy of items, from heavy tomes of knowledge, to poorly-sewn dolls, one even had what looked to be colorful handkerchiefs. The single thing they all had in common was that America had never seen any of it before.

He nibbled absentmindedly on his lower lip as he glanced over the clutter. It looked like someone had been in the middle of a move, but had been forced to end up fleeing in a rush. Certainly it wasn't as if he compiled such an odd assortment of items in his sleep─

The chewing stopped as he thought back to how he slept. Unusual dreams, not quite nightmares, but nonetheless filled with anxiety, had plagued him. He had dreamt of being bounced about in a car, irritatingly warm under a heavy cover. There had been the rotary noises of a motor, the slice of air as propellers spun feverishly.

Voices─ no, _a_ voice had been present for the entirety of his sleep. A rough grumble, at first saying what sounded like threats, but soon shifting to softer words and kinder tones of assured safety. The dreams buzzed loudly in America's ears, played as lifelike smudges swam past his eyes. They were all too vivid─ too _real_.

America's knees buckled beneath him, sending him back to the floor. He made not a sound, too overwhelmed with the prospect he was facing. He had been kipnapped. Straight up, no sweet talk or candy in cars, simply taken by force at the apparent whim of Russia.

It had to be _Russia_. He must have been planning it all along, with his unreal expressions and excited shakes. Even then, at the meeting, he had most likely been envisioning the blueprints in his head. Surrounded by people, in the presence of the one he was going to snatch away, he still couldn't stop himself from nearly bursting with giddiness.

Cold waves of alarm rolled over America as he lay on the floor, eyes locked on nothingness. What was Russia going to do to him? Something weird, something _wrong_, no doubt. Carve out his tongue, hang him from the rafters, possibly both? Worse yet, Russia could be under the impression that he could control America, like a little puppet, force him to bend foreign policies and start new wars.

Escape. America would have to escape before Russia came back. He clamored to his feet and lurched to the only window he could see through the forest of boxes. His cheek slammed against the pane of glass in his haste, and he tasted the light tang of blood in his mouth. He'd have to move more slowly.

He looked for a way to open the window, some kind of lock, any kind of latch. It was a solid, clear sheet. His fingers slid over it, the feeling beneath them not that of glass, but something stronger, resistant to force. Plexiglass. The window was covered in shallow scrapes that dipped beneath America's touch. How many people had been in this room before, and how many of them had scratched at this very same window?

America pressed his forehead against it and stared at the outside world. Iron bars fell across his view, ensuring there would be no way in, and no way out. Outside was bleak, a vast white plain, snow drizzling at a slight slant. A few trees, so far away they appeared fuzzed around the edges, populated the emptiness. Not another house in sight.

Abandoning an escape through the window, America made for the door, careful not to face-plant again. He pulled on the knob, unsurprised when he found it to be locked. He could only wait for it to be opened.

Refusing to lay back and wait, America decided to look for a weapon. He turned boxes on their sides, hands fluttering through papers and dish towels. Everything was a blurred mass to him, without real form or distinct edges. It reminded him of how crummy his vision was without glasses.

Thinking of his spectacles, America raised a hand to touch them, like a security blanket. His hand met nothing but skin. America let out a weak cry at the discovery, today was not his day.

Knowing his search for a weapon would be hindered by his eyesight, America resolved to first find his glasses. He went back to the bed, rifling through the nearby nightstand. There was a notepad, blank as far as America could tell, and a pencil. No glasses.

He scoped out the covers, pulling them off, investigating between the folds to see if his spectacles had fallen off while he slept. No matter how many times he ran his hands over the bed, or searched through the nightstand, his glasses were nowhere to be found.

The echo of footsteps snapped America's attention away from his investigation. There was no time to look for his specs, he needed that weapon more than anything now. He scurried back to the overturned boxes, weighing several objects at a time in his hand, trying to find which was the heaviest.

America settled on a round, fairly weighted object. Figuring it must have been a paperweight, America retreated back to bed with it in hand. He pulled the covers up to his chin, blurry vision fixed on the entrance, paperweight hidden in his palm.

The clomp of heavy boots came to a stop outside the door. America tightened his grip on the weight, readied himself to hurl it across the room the instant that fat Russian head poked its way in.

The clink of a key being placed in a lock sounded, followed by the twist and snap of the door being unlocked. The hinges wheezed with loud creeks as they were opened, slowly, so slowly America's nerves began to burn with anticipation. In a moment of clarity, he sprawled his limbs beneath the covers, shut his eyes, feigning sleep. Russia would be easy pickings.

He heard the swoop of a body entering the room, the quick snap of the door as it was closed. Floorboards creaked, and the atmosphere changed in a manner that was almost _tangible_. It moved from stuffy and bothersome, to overbearing, almost suffocating.

America's fingers loosened on his makeshift weapon. Maybe throwing things at Russia wasn't such a good idea. America would have the element of surprise, but Russia might recover more quickly than anticipated and in turn pulverize him into a fine pulp.

It was too late to change his mind. America snapped up in bed and threw the paper weight with everything he had, grunting with the effort. It soared straight at Russia, who was halfway to the bed. He dropped an object from his own hand to the floor as he raised his arm to defend himself. It was struck with a sickening thud.

America stared on with disbelief, too surprised that he had really hit Russia to scramble out of bed and run. He squinted, strained his eyes to see what Russia's reaction was. He only shoved up his sleeve and gave it a quick look, a seamless recovery. America shrunk back into the sheets.

"Good morning," Russia bit out, retrieving the object he had let slip from his hand.

"H-hey," America mumbled back, peering over the covers at Russia. He didn't dare shoot a glance at what the other man was carrying, knowing from his last experience that it was unwise to look away. Not to mention he could pick up on the strained edge of Russia's voice, hear that violent twinge of wanting to strike back and then some.

Russia pulled a chair from behind a stack of boxes, never quite turning away from his captive. He dragged it over to the side of the bed, ignoring America's winces as the legs scraped and screamed against the floor. Once it bumped against the mattress, he took a seat, placing the object on the bedside table.

"America," Russia murmured, leaning in over the bed. His bulk took up most of distance between them, eliminating any kind of person space America might have enjoyed, but in return America could now see Russia much more clearly. There was a cruel, rigid quality to his expression that made America wish his vision was worse than it already was.

"Russia," America returned, giving a single nod. He smelled Russia's breath as it tickled against his nose, the usual tinge of alcohol absent.

"I give you my hospitality, open my home to you, and do my best to ensure your comfort and safety on the trip over. Etiquette dictates you must be thankful, almost unendingly, wouldn't you say?" As he spoke, Russia's hand thumped a single time on America's chest, knocking the wind out of him. As America struggled to regain his breath and Russia kept talking, his hand slowly traveled upwards, coming to rest at America's throat.

"You stole me off the streets," America spat back, shoving Russia's hand away. "You knocked me out and brought me to Ice Station Zebra!"

"Do _not_ be ungrateful," Russia snarled, his hand easily snaking back up America's throat, massaging, pressing, clutching.

America shut his mouth, body continuing to squirm, desperately trying to slither away from the nails that scraped at his throat. He was sure he'd be receiving a blow to the head at any moment, or to be strangled into a state of submission. Or until he flat out died.

Russia drew his hands away from America's throat, but did not move back entirely. America's vision was blocked by his entire body, massive and all consuming. Everything felt _taken_ from him by this massive excuse for a man. His glasses, his freedom, and now even his insides were beginning to feel like they no longer belonged to him. Russia was so close it was as if the other man were _consuming_ any identity America was permitted to have.

America's nerves were too shot for subtlety, and so he shoved at Russia's chest, forcing him to pull back. He pouted and looked away, giving no indication that he wanted to interact with Russia. Even if he was forced to exist in the same space, America wasn't going to make it easy. Every word Russia extracted from his mouth was going to be a fight.

Russia sighed, shifted in his chair, one leg crossing the other. He wasn't going anywhere. America studied the pale walls of the room with disinterest, listening to as Russia leaned from one side to another, drumming his fingers on the nightstand with a bored edge before looking inside it. The scrabble of a pencil being picked up and the flutter of notepad pages as they were flicked through touched against America's ears.

"Patient proving hostile," Russia dictated, writing down his words as he went. "Refuses to be handled, must be given 200 cc's of─"

"I'm not hostile!" America kicked at the sheets, legs entangling themselves. "How can you expect me to be a little ball of sunshine, to curl around your legs like a friendly cat?"

Russia tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, pale lips twitching up at the corners. "How kind of you to join me, America."

"Join you? Like Hell, I'm not a godless commie."

"Watch your tongue," Russia reminded him with a gentle, patronizing tone. "And hands where I can see them," he added as an afterthought.

America grudgingly placed his hands on his lap, smoothing the wrinkles of the sheets in a feeble attempt to hide trembling fingers. Russia quietly stared at them, smile growing as he registered the shaking. He wrote something down without looking at the paper.

"Stop that," America commanded, voice lacking any true authority.

"Hm, stop what?" Russia looked him in the eye and continued to write.

America stared at the bridge of Russia's nose, unwilling to return his gaze. "That thing with the writing, like you're some kind of─"

"You like the cereal with the tiger man on it, yes?" Russia interrupted. "What is he, really? I used to think he was a man in an animal suit, but after looking at him more closely he might just be a very ugly tiger. American tigers are quite ugly, don't you think? They must have a disease of some sort."

"W-what?" America stammered.

"I was looking through your house and saw─"

"My house? I never gave you permission to go in there, stay the fuck out!"

"Such vulgar words are unbecoming for such a pretty voice. I must ask you not to use them."

America's brain spiraled into a pit of confusion. The thought of Russia in his house made his skin crawl, his teeth ache, and eyes water. It was a _violation_ of his safety, of his trust. Not that he had any to spare for Russia. And those words, claiming America had a pretty voice. They sounded like more of a threat than a compliment, as if Russia might rip out his vocal chords to stop him from cursing.

"Why were you in my home?" America scoffed, doing his best impersonation of the stiff upper lip England always had stapled to his face.

"I was looking for you." Russia kicked his feet up and onto the bed, boots and all. "You live in such a lovely neighborhood, I cannot blame you for leaving the front door unlocked. Your house was surprisingly neat, not counting your room. All the paperwork I could want, so conveniently filed away in carefully marked folders." He hummed happily to himself, closing his eyes as his mind wandered back to the memory.

America shook his head in disbelief before burying his face in his hands. "You're kidding me. You _have_ to be kidding me."

"If it eases your distress any, I would have caught you no matter what."

"'Scuse me?" America asked, spying through his fingers.

"You could have been home, at a loved one's house, or out on the streets as you were. Where you hid would have made little difference. It is impossible to run from me."

"I wasn't hiding from you to begin with," America argued weakly.

"Yes you were, in some trees. You hit your head rather hard, from the sound of it."

"Oh, that."

"Speaking of which, does it still hurt?" Russia reached over, fingertips finding their way to the back of America's skull.

America blinked, shuddered at the feather-light touch that made his heart quiver. "No, not at all. Now get your grubby hands off me," he growled.

Russia sat back. "Such a feisty spirit you have. It is cute for now, but it may not be so much in the future."

"Whatever."

"Going back a bit, about that tiger. That is a cereal you enjoy, is it not?"

"They're called Frosted Flakes, and what's it to you?"

"Well, as I said before, I was going through your home. I went through the cupboards to see what food you like and noticed them. After all, one would not purchase a puppy without finding out what it ate beforehand."

"I'm not something from a store, y'know. I can just not eat whatever you try to feed me. It's all poisoned, I bet."

"You have such little faith in me, America. Why would I attempt to poison you now? I could easily have killed you earlier, when you were nothing but a limp doll in my arms, almost endearingly vulnerable." Russia scratched gently along America's jaw, like he would a beloved pet.

America shuddered and jerked his head away. Russia's words struck him down to the bone, seeped into the marrow like an unwanted chill. He wanted to block them out, refuse how they made him feel, or at least make them stop flowing. "Fine. I'll eat your stupid food, but only if you taste test it first."

"I'm pleased we could come to such an agreement." Russia motioned at the bedside table. "I brought you something to start off with until I could be sure of what you like ."

For the first time since he had entered the room, America looked away from Russia. A box lay on the nightstand, a large carton. Orange blurs that vaguely resembled fish dotted the packaging, decorated with black blotches that looked like sunglasses.

"Goldfish?" America asked flatly.

"Yes, and don't pretend you don't like them because you were eating them, _I saw you_."

America returned his gaze to Russia. "Do you know how creepy the things you say are, or is it like a natural gift?"

"I speak only the truth."

"Well you sure make it sound freaky." America reached for the carton, turned it over in his hands to make sure it had not been tampered with, but realised it was a fruitless endeavor without his glasses. "What'd you do with my glasses?"

"I've been holding onto them for safekeeping, I'm sure you understand," Russia said airily, as if his reason for having them was obvious.

"Fantastic. Now that I'm awake, give 'em back." America grimaced inwardly at the idea of Russia holding his glasses. Running his grimy gloves over them, studying the lenses so closely the glass fogged from his breath.

"No."

America slumped back into the pillows of the bed, tapping his fingers along the carton in his lap. "They're not yours to keep."

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law."

"I don't want to play games, Russia, hand 'em over."

"I left you with your coat, be grateful for that. Not to mention I brought most of your wardrobe."

"So you not only kidnapped me, but robbed me as well?"

"With good reason. I would not want you to resort to wearing the same outfit every day." Russia coughed into his hand. "Not that it really stops you."

"You're a madman. A complete and utter lunatic. You break into my house, go through my food, probably eat some of it too, then search my work documents and pack my clothes up. I don't think there's any hope for you, I mean, maybe I once did. There may have been a time where I looked across the meeting table and thought 'Hey, he might be a commie, but he might also like mini golf'. How wrong I was, how little I knew."

"It's not like that," Russia assured, face pleading. "I did not only search through your files, I brought them as well."

"Did you bring the kitchen sink too?" America asked, tone bordering on the edge of hysteria. There were papers in there that were meant for no one's eyes but his own, papers that could throw the national security of the nation into jeopardy.

"No, should I have?"

"It was a joke, like, you know the saying─" America let out a flustered breath and threw his hands in the air. "Pretend I never even mentioned it."

Russia reached over to take America's hands in his own, patting them in a caring fashion. "You needn't be upset, I will be gone soon enough."

America slipped his hands from Russia's grasps, folding his arms to shield himself. "Where're you headin' off to?"

"I'm going to pick up some groceries. Or I would, if you'd tell me what you'd like."

America brightened, seeing the slightest light at the end of the tunnel. If he cooperated, Russia would be out of his hair much sooner. He fumbled with the box in his lap, tore the top off and shoveled a handful a fish into his mouth, good ideas always made him hungry. "More of these, for starters."

Russia wrote it down and nodded for America to go on.

"Uh, some cookies. Specifically, the ones with the animals that are all pink and white. Also some soda, any kind is good."

"Is there any _real_ food you would like?"

America munched away thoughtfully. "Not that I can really think of. Surprise me─ but no weird stuff!"

"Of course, no cow tongues or sheep eyes."

"Great, now you can mosey along." America ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth, removing bits and chips of goldfish from his teeth. "But before you do that, mind getting me a drink?"

"It would be my pleasure." Russia stood slowly before leaving the room without a backwards glance.

America watched him leave, watched as he left the door ajar. A sliver, a gap of freedom. If he acted quickly, America could make a break for it, flee into the open world. Except he didn't know the layout of the house. He could run smack dab into a wall on accident and knock his own lights out. If not that, Russia would have the upper hand of chasing him down, knowing the ins and outs of his home. Better to stay put for now.

Russia peeked around the doorframe as America wrapped his thoughts up neatly. He shook a bottle of vodka before himself as he entered, face unusually blank. "Will this do?" He asked.

America rubbed a hand along his neck as Russia approached him. Being inebriated around his captor wasn't at the top of his to-do list, but a sip or two couldn't hurt. However, the chance existed that Russia had put something in it. America wouldn't put it past him, considering the man was a-okay with drugging people and piloting them on a cross-continental flight without permission.

"Drink some first," America said simply.

"Surely you understand that I will be driving to the store," Russia muttered, a frown tugging at his lips.

"I didn't say I wanted you to chug it. Just a mouthful, to prove you haven't drugged it."

Russia shook his head and sighed, coat rippling as he shrugged his consent. "As you wish."

America silently stared, grateful for the closeness of their proximity as Russia tipped the bottle to his mouth, lips pressed against the opening. His Adam's apple lay perfectly still, giving not a single bob as he took a swig of vodka. Or at least, pretended to. A pleased smile played across America's lips. He knew exactly what to do.

"Seeing that you haven't bought the farm yet, I guess it'll be alright to drink." America held out his hand, fingers curling momentarily with expectation.

Russia murmured a word or two about trust in a tone too low and somber for America to fully hear and handed the bottle over. America eagerly clutched the neck of the bottle and held it to his lips, pressed in much the same fashion as Russia had done. His inner child laughed wildly and pointed out that he was kissing Russia by proxy. It had a terrible knack for popping up when he was under mind-numbing amounts of stress.

America lowered the bottle and mentally scolded himself. Now was not the time for schoolyard talk. It wasn't like Russia had cooties, or would point and giggle at him once he took a drink. Russia coughed politely again, the same cough that had preceded the darkness. America nearly dropped the bottle at the noise before turning to look at him, eyes trained again on the bridge of his nose.

"I'm not dead, really," Russia assured him, holding out his arm, palm up, to America. "Touch it."

America delicately placed his hand in Russia's, listening to the crinkle of stiff leather, watching as Russia's gloved hand lightly squeezed his own. They sat quietly for a moment, America looking at his hand in Russia's own, unamused by how pale and dainty it looked. He didn't even know what this was accomplishing, or if it even _had_ anything to accomplish.

"What's this all about?" America questioned.

Russia's expression was slightly dazed, his awareness simmering under a layer of blank thought. "I am sure it had a point, but I cannot recall it now..." He trailed, dropping America's hand.

"Er, I'm sure." America clasped the bottle in both hands and raised it once more to his lips.

He pretended, as Russia had, to drink. Trained better in the art of acting, America forced himself to gulp at the nothingness in his mouth several times. He removed the bottle from his lips and set it on the nightstand, letting out the sated sigh of one who has had their thirst slaked.

"Is it to your tastes?" Russia said after a moment.

"Nothing to write home about, but it'll do for now." America yawned, debating how long he should take before putting on a show. After several moments, he relaxed his body, loosening every little muscle that came to mind. He fought momentarily against the covers, whining, low and drawn out. "Son'uva _bitch_. What'd you put in it this time?"

"I do not know what you're talking about."

"Don't even try that on me." America dropped his head back onto the pillow, throwing is restlessly from side to side. "You spiked the drink. I bet you didn't even have any."

"That is correct, I did not taste it."

America shut his eyes and stilled, using all his self control not to spit in Russia's face for trying to trick him again. But this time, the upper hand was his. _Fool me once, shame on you,_ he thought, _fool me twice, and I will jack your shit up._

Russia sat at America's side for awhile, the soft inhale, and slightly wheezing exhale, almost metronome-like in their consistency. He eventually rose from his seat, but did not leave. It sounded to America as if Russia were moving something about, not around the room, but on his _person_. If there was anything even resembling a God, America knew he would not, _could not_, be stripping.

He nearly flinched at the cool skin that brushed against his forehead, flicking a few stray hairs from his brow. The pads of Russia's bare fingers lovingly dancing down his temple, skimming over his cheek with an intimacy that America had never thought Russia capable of.

"You know," Russia whispered, his tail of his words trailing along the shell of America's ear, "I prefer you awake. I enjoy your responsiveness, the warmth of your flesh as it presses against mine in our little tussles. Even now, in the weakness of slumber, you are beautiful, and almost─" he paused, searching for the right word. "─almost _forgivable_. But it is not enough. I want you awake, writhing in my hands, speaking to me, in insults or niceties I do not care. All I want is your companionship," Russia said the last words in an anguished hiss.

Once Russia's confession sunk into America's mind, he visibly balked, lurching up in bed with the shock of it. The door clicked closed the moment his eyes locked on it, Russia having fled from the room the instant he had finished speaking. The distinctive clank of the door being locked echoed in the room.

America stared dumbly ahead of himself, piecing together what had happened in such a short amount of time. Russia was a monster, something mothers warned their children about, not a person who desired the mere presence of other people. He hoarded human beings like one might hoard a doll collection, adding more and more when he had no right to.

He certainly didn't view people as living, breathing things, with wants and needs of their own. They were only around to serve him, provide entertainment. No matter what he pretended to be, Russia was _not_ human, his mind dwelt in places that none ever should, and committed acts so horrific there were no words to describe them.

America lay in bed, giving himself reason after reason for why he had to escape. He perked up at what he thought might be the sound of the front door opening and closing, elated that Russia was already on his way to the store. Now all he had to do was jimmy the lock on the door and he'd be home free.

He swung his legs over the bed, dangling his toes above the flooring. He'd have to pull a MacGyver, using only the most basic of items to break out. Surely there would be something of use to him in one of the many boxes.

He began to overturn boxes once again on the floor with reckless abandon, only half-registering what they contained before moving onto the next. A yip of glee rolled of his tongue as he heard a metallic, tinny clatter as dozens of paperclips bounced across the floor.

America crouched down, fingers flailing until they snagged one of the clips. He brought it to his lips, planted a grateful kiss on the malleable frame. After bestowing it with silent thanks, he unraveled the wire, approaching the door as he did his best to turn the rounded of the clip edges into a straight line.

He worked the clip into the keyhole, aimlessly shoving it around within the lock mechanism, hoping for the door to simply recognize his awesomeness and pop open. When it didn't, America resorted to prodding more slowly, trying to hook and press at the insides of the lock.

He thought about how long it would be until Russia was back. Half an hour would be a good estimate. Chances were Russia didn't exactly live close to town, and the snow-covered ground would only lengthen the trip. America figured he would even have time to snoop about, find a few things to blackmail Russia with in the future.

The door refused to give. America whined in irritation, unwilling to believe an inanimate object could be so stubborn. He shoved his shoulder against it a few times, earning only an unsatisfying rattle from the door. A tiny, biting voice began to nag at him, remind him every other second that he was wasting time.

What if Russia really wasn't that far from the store? For all America knew, it could be within walking distance of the house, and he only thought it far because he couldn't see it from his window. Icy tendrils of worry twined around America's common sense as he continued to think, constricting his calmness.

Maybe it would be best to wait for another opportunity. Not that America wanted to stick around, but so far staying in this room wasn't the worst experience of his life. Russia had been unexpectedly kind, calm, hadn't even struck out at him when he'd had a paperweight chucked at him.

America shook his head fervently and continued to work at the lock. Thinking about Russia as anything but an inhuman beast was wrong. His hands weren't soft, his words weren't kind, and he certainly didn't want America around just for some company.

A gentle creak reached America's ears as the door slowly opened. He gaped at it, having been too deep in thought to notice he had unlocked it. Without thinking, he jerked it back shut. Should he really leave? Since when was escaping one's kidnapper so easy?

The annoying voice that had previously nagged America about Russia's return came back for a second go. _Have you heard about a little something called Stockholm Syndrome?_ It asked him.

"Yeah, it's that kooky thing people get when they're taken hostage. They start thinking their captors are pretty stand-up guys," America said, unaware that he was conversing with himself aloud.

_I can't help but notice you've had a few thoughts similar to that regarding Russia._

"You shut up, this isn't anything like that! I'm only glad he didn't snuff me out the second he had the chance to─" America paused, features slackening with surprise. That kind of sounded exactly like what he knew about Stockholm Syndrome, or at least the beginnings of it. Being thankful to your captor because of the mere fact they haven't taken your life.

America jerked the doorknob open with a wild twist of his wrist, blocked out any form of thought, and bolted through the open door as the satisfied cackle of his inner voice pounded in his head. He was losing his damn mind.

_A/N:_

_Talk about a long chapter, eh? Most of them aren't this long, but looking back on future chapters (this makes sense to me, it does) it looks like chapters generally run around four thousand words each. Anyway, figure I'd update again today since Wednesday is my usual updating day to begin with! Feels a little weird to post chapter six on livejournal, only to come back and kick the second chapter out here.  
_


	3. Chapter 3

The second America was out of his room, he had expected to fly through the house, zip straight to the front door and make a perfect exit. But that kind of stuff only happened in the movies.

After banging into numerous walls and stubbing his toes several times, America had realised the need to move more slowly. He forced himself to lay a hand against the wall, using it as a guide while he walked, though it did not save him from bumping into pieces of furniture and decorations.

With every noise he made, America feared the echo. Every breath he exhaled, every pad of his bare feet against cool floors, he could hardly believe to be his own. How was it possible to be so loud when one had the sole intent of being silent?

Several times he heard an out of place step, a suspiciously loud gasp, only to find it was his own. He feared that, though impossible, the noises would reach Russia, sending his captor speeding home. The idea of being caught in the act of escape made America's mind spin with anxiety.

He had to stop wasting time, bumbling around the house as if he were planning to stay. His best chance was to find a telephone, alert some kind of authority to his situation. But it wasn't as if he could properly explain his situation, being unable to speak anything beyond a few words of Russian. Telling the operator "thanks" and "hello" would hardly get him anywhere.

America quickly ran through a mental list of people he could call. Most of their numbers he couldn't remember, narrowing the list down in an instant. England, that number he could remember. But what would England's reaction be to America's phone call?

He would think it a prank call, since it wasn't as if America had been missing long enough to stir any suspicions. England always was on the wary side. Eventually he'd realise America was telling the truth, but by that time America might not even be around to rub it in his face. He'd need someone unendingly reliable.

Canada, on the other hand, was always a good choice. He was almost unnervingly in tune with how America was feeling most of the time, probably because of the whole twins bit. America could tell his brother he was on the moon for all it mattered, and Canada would know it if it were true or not.

America found himself in what he thought to be the foyer. It was wide, all encompassing, the size daunting. He scrunched up his eyes and looked at his surroundings, frustrated with how nondescript everything was. He began to feel his way around again, hands bouncing off couches and chairs, snaking along throw rugs and books.

Cool plastic met his grip, and America stilled. He looked down, squinted to see his find. It was beautiful, glorious, and ineffable in its placement. It was a phone. America breathed a sigh filled with happiness, he had found his ticket out of Hell.

He picked the phone up with trembling fingers, held the receiver to his ear, smiled at the dial tone that greeted him. His free hand fell on the table, slowly tracing numbers as he recalled Canada's phone number.

His index finger bumped against an object, and he drew back in an instant, still on high alert. He warily reached out after a moment of waiting, curious as to what he had touched. His eyes widened in surprise as he felt the familiar weight of thin frames and thick lenses.

America fumbled the phone receiver as he slammed it back into the cradle. He grasped at the glasses, _his_ glasses, hastily shoving them on his face. He blinked dumbly as he registered what he had found, what amazing luck he had been gifted with.

First the phone, and now the glasses, right next to each other. He was suspicious of the coincidence, head swiveling to look behind him, as if to find Russia, to accost him of getting his hopes up. But the room was empty, America's only company a few poorly-tended plants.

He turned his attention back to the phone, heart fluttering with joy at how very _crisp_ it appeared to him. Every number on the pad was perfectly clear, a beautiful sight for his eyes. He picked the receiver up again, this time momentarily bungling it in his excitement, but he hardly noticed. With his sight back, America was invincible.

Tones beeped as America began to dial, mind racing to find the words he would say. How did one properly convey they had been kidnapped? If there was a certain etiquette regarding being rescued, America was wholly unaware of it. He was always the rescuer, the one who burst onto the scene astride a brilliant white steed.

The phone started to ring, long and drawn out. America scratched at his chin, deciding to be blunt and up front, because how hard could it be to convey that he was being held hostage? He rapped his nails against the table. One ring, two rings, three rings. Canada's voice began to play in America's ear.

"Hello, you've reached Matthew's answering machine─"

America groaned and tapped his foot impatiently. He didn't _want_ an answering machine, he wanted a real live voice, one that would have actual concern for his predicament, understand the need for urgency.

"If you're looking for Alfred," America mouthed along with the message, "You can find him at─"

_Click_.

America stopped mimicking the message, brows rising in bemusement. He was pretty sure Canada's answering machine never had a clicking noise in it before. The sound itself conjured up gunpowder in America's mind, aged metal, outdated technology. It reminded him of guns. Nothing new or fancy, but instead time tested.

He snapped his fingers as his own number sounded through the receiver. "Bolt action rifle," he said to himself, quite smug that he'd placed the noise so well.

"Very good, consider me impressed."

America's grip on the receiver loosened, jaw slackening with surprise. Canada's answering machine never said that before, let alone in a heavy Russian accent.

"Be a dear and hang up the phone," Russia ordered, the words crawling up the back of America's neck, coating his skin with a chill.

He hesitated, stalling for time, knowing that any second Canada's long-winded message would end and he'd hear that beloved _beep_ that would mean the end to his search for help. The muzzle of the gun kissed the back of his head, pushing aside his hair before coming to rest against his skull.

"_Hang up,_" Russia growled.

Hot tears prickled at the back of America's eyes as he deftly hung the phone up. He was so close to freedom, only a phone message away, and now Russia was back to tear his hope away. He sniffled as his elation faded, ebbed into despair.

Too many emotions at once, too strong for him to handle in silence. Rage at being a captive boiled in his chest, intertwining with the strands of growing fear at what would happen to him if he stayed any longer, if he simply could not escape. It was like too many brilliant colors at once, no matter how beautiful on their own, as all emotions were, combining too many would always lead to a terrible, murky mess.

"See how easy things are when you behave?" The gun was pulled away, replaced by kind, stroking fingers.

America forced a noise of strangled agreement. He couldn't deny things went more smoothly when he did as he was told, that was nothing new, but it never left him satisfied. It wasn't in him to sit back and take commands. In his eyes, that was a fast track to being taken advantage of.

"You're not supposed to be here," America said through gritted teeth.

Russia's hand fell away from America's hair, brushing along his spine as it dropped, coming to rest on the small of his back as Russia stepped up beside him. "And where did you think I would be, pushing a little cart around narrow aisles, debating which sweets you would like best?"

"Something like that." America fixed his gaze on the telephone, refusing to acknowledge Russia's touch, his presence.

"To tell the truth, I was planning to do such a thing, but then you had your little─" Russia hummed for a few seconds, searching for the appropriate word, "─_episode._"

"Well, what were you expecting me to do?"

"I can tell you that I wasn't expecting you to play dead, or whatever little trick it was that you were trying to accomplish."

"I thought I had you fooled," America huffed under his breath.

"Oh no, I quite enjoyed the show, you have fine acting talents, but I was not lying when I said I had not tampered with your drink. It was vodka, pure and simple, and no matter how poor your ability to hold your drink is, a sip or two would not knock you out."

America licked his lips nervously as he tried to put the pieces together. He had been so _sure_ Russia was going to drug him, especially when Russia hadn't drunk any vodka himself. "If you didn't put anything in it, why didn't you have some?"

"So observant," Russia purred, lightly scratching America's back with gloved fingertips. "In truth, I wanted none. As I told you, I prefer not to drink and drive." He chuckled to himself, deep and rolling. "Your paranoia is greater than your reasoning, a combination I truly adore."

The tears America had been trying so hard to stem seeped from his eyes, rolling hastily down his cheeks, wanting to escape the situation just as badly as America did. He swiped at them with the back of his hand, clearing them away, only for more to come tumbling down.

Russia had known he was awake the entire time, pretended to take a part in America's little game, all the while aware of the truth. And the words he had spoken while America had pretended to be sleeping─

"Why did you say those things?" America choked out, shoulders beginning to heave as he fought to control his breathing.

Russia didn't respond at first, taking several paces away to place the gun down, well away from America's reach. He turned on his heel and strode back, foot falls silent against the floor as he flitted back with movements too quick and too light for a man his size.

Russia lurched forward in a sudden movement, hands capturing America's wrists, twisting them roughly until America yelped sharply in pain. "_Listen to me_," Russia hissed, shaking America, "I meant those words, every last single one of them."

America flinched with each syllable that bit at his ears, trying to pull away as best he could. Russia released him and smiled. The curl of his pale lips set alarms off in his mind, the way they drew back, exposing snow-white teeth that glistened and gleamed. There was a distinct _wrongness_ to the sight that caused him to involuntarily cower and curl away. He wasn't looking at a grown man, but a child who wanted to play with his dolls, and play _rough_.

America's mind buzzed and snapped with ideas and outcomes. He could play the part Russia wanted him to, docile and obedient, wait until Russia's guard was down to dart off, or he could seize the moment. Russia was expecting him to go for the gun, America could see how his deep, almost hypnotizing eyes flicked back and forth from him to the weapon.

He wouldn't be thinking America would go for the phone again. Of course it'd be impossible to nonchalantly pick it up and dial Canada once more, Russia would crack him across the head with the butt of his rifle before he even got the first ring off. But he didn't need to call Canada right in the middle of the foyer.

It was possible to make a mad dash though, snatch up the phone and go tearing away into another room. America could barricade himself in, and as long as he could hook the phone back up he'd be good as gold. Sure, once Russia steamrolled into the room, or simply waited America out, there'd be hell to pay, but at least America could rest assured he'd set the wheels of rescue in motion.

"Russia?" America questioned meekly, feigning a quiver in his voice. "Would you do me a favor?"

"I shall grant you every last little thing you ask for, my panicky little bird. Or at least, almost anything." _Just not your freedom_.

"That's great, that's _fantastic_," America forced his voice to be high, chipper, nearly hysteric. "For starters, you can kiss my ass!"

America ripped the phone from its spot and bolted, leaving a momentarily stunned Russia behind him. His feet ricocheted off the floor as he ran at full pelt, winding and curving and ducking and _escaping. _His heart thudded with the effort, lungs burning fiercely as his legs pumped and carried him through the house without pause.

His shoulder clipped a doorframe. His feet tangled in the cords of the phone. The floor flew up to meet his face, or maybe _he_ was the one flying to meet _it._ The phone struck his stomach as he landed, clattering loudly enough to cover to sound of America's breath leaving him.

He wheezed and struggled to his feet. The clomp of Russia's heavy steps echoing through the halls, pounding against America's ears as he sucked in air, thumping a hand on his chest in an attempt to encourage the process. The steps grew louder, closer.

America's eyes bounced around the kitchen, growing wide with awe as he took in his surroundings. He was in the kitchen. Kitchens had _knives_. America certainly appreciated the idea of having one of those babies, even if he was up against a gun-wielding maniac.

He staggered to the drawer closest to him, yanking it out of its nook and letting it fall, dousing the floor with silverware. Nothing sharp enough, only rounded spoons, pronged forks, and butter knives. A second drawer was ripped away, napkin rings clinking and oven mitts rustling as they hit the floor.

The third drawer hit the floor with a shower of butcher's knives. The hand that wasn't cradling the phone darted down to grasp it. America stifled a pained cry as his trembling hand grabbed the wrong end, the blade biting deeply into the soft flesh of his palm. He snarled as slick blood began to flood down his hand, dropping the knife instinctively as he shook his hand, blood spattering on his clothes and the floor.

Russia rounded the corner and bounded into the kitchen, gun twirling between his fingers. The overtly hungry, barbaric twinkle in his eyes dulled as his gaze swept over the scene. "What have you done to yourself?" He crooned, not with concern, but inhumane curiosity, like a cat questioning an injured mouse before landing a fatal blow.

"Nothing you wouldn't do to me," America answered hastily, pitch raising franticly as he tried to pick the knife up again.

The handle slid in his grasp, slippery, coated with blood as his hand wrapped around it. He lurched to his feet and waved it at Russia, fending him off as best he could. Russia gave America an indulgent smile, eyes carefully tracing the blade as it sliced through the air.

"That's a nasty cut," Russia purred, twisted delight sparkling in the depths of his eyes. "Put the knife down and I'll fix you up."

"The only way I'm letting go of this knife is if it's buried in your chest," America spat back.

Russia took a step towards him, gun leveled at America's face. America cringed and held the phone tight against his body. He wouldn't let anyone take his lifeline from him, not even if it cost him the beating of his heart.

Making a noise somewhere between a cough and a disappointed laugh, Russia shook his head. "You're going to run again, aren't you?" He asked.

America looked Russia over from head to toe. Took in his lazy, devil may care stance, the way his chest easily rose and fell as he waited for a response. Not a sign that he's at all winded. America went through a mental checklist of his own body.

Heart, pounding. Lungs, winded. Limbs, sore. Except for his hand. His hand just hurt, blood continuing to drip, tickling his feet as it landed. He wiggled his toes and grimaced as the blood slipped between them.

"Yeah," America breathed, "I'm going to run again." And with that, he sprinted past Russia.

America ran through growingly familiar passages, hardly taking in his surroundings as he raced about them. He had to find a safe spot, a room to hide himself in long enough to make a call. Only a few interrupted minutes, that was all he was asking for.

The floor gave out beneath America's feet. He half lurched, half fell down a flight of stairs he hadn't noticed. He tumbled headfirst, neck connecting with the sharp edge of the step. Pain shot through his body as he righted himself, ankle bending awkwardly in the process.

He fell in a dazed heap at the foot of the stairs, blinking away the sparking pain that constricted his senses. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, legs sprawled before him, loosely holding the knife in one hand, the phone in the other.

America was struck with an unexpected urge to sleep. To escape the fear, terror, and monsters that inhabited this house. Every step he took was another step closer to the heart of the madness. Russia and his madhouse were consuming America's sanity, ripping it from him and gobbling it up. If only he could rest, rid himself of the pain and fear he was being assaulted with.

The tears sprang back in full force as America began to crawl in the darkness. Chair legs bumped against his shoulder as he moved, the edge of a table knocking against his forehead. America sat back and ran a forearm across his eyes, careful not to nick himself with the knife. He'd have to turn on some lights if he was going to get anywhere.

With a listless heave, America righted himself and tottered back to the stairs, feeling for a switch. His fingers flicked against the first one he found, bathing the room in tones of fluorescent white and yellow. Dust particles danced in the air before America's eyes, flitting about as he watched.

The return of footsteps yanked America's attention away from the dust and back to the stairs. There was a bread crumb trail of blood leading right to him. America dropped the phone and knife before forcing himself back up the stairs, moving on all fours. There was an open door at the top.

America pulled the door shut as he reached the last step, locking it before clamoring back down the stairs. He'd bought himself some time, Russia would have to go find the key for the door before getting in.

America got to his knees and gathered the phone and knife to him. He searched the walls for phone jack, spotting one beneath the table he had previously bumped against. America mustered a broken smile as he crawled beneath it, fumbling the cords in his hand and plugging the jack in.

Bloodied fingers pressed at the number pad, sliding from key to key. With the receiver firmly held against his ear, America waited with baited breath for the phone to ring, tears still streaming in rivulets down his face. The line was dead.

"No, no, _no_," America panted at the phone, "you can't do this to me, I won't let you!"

A gentle knock at the door interrupted America's pleading. It was playful, lilting, almost rhythmic. "I'm coming in now, America," Russia announced, voice muffled.

America hugged the phone receiver to his chest, eyes growing wide and frightened. Lips trembled along with fingers. Only the door stood between him and Russia, and that wouldn't last long. He wiped the blood from his hand with a wince and readjusted his hold on the knife.

The deafening blast of a gunshot disarmed America. Wood splintered in his ears, dust burst from the top of the steps, the noise and confusion, partially deafening him. He stared at where the doorknob was─ where the doorknob _had_ been. A gnarled hole had been blown in it, leaving a gaping wound.

Black, spidery fingers weaseled through the gash, waving in an almost pleasant manner before being pulled back out. America hardly dared to breath as the door swung open, the stoic figure of Russia emerging, descending the stairs with a lively, if not jaunty, step.

America moved the receiver back to his mouth and began to speak quickly, spouting off every last word that curled along his tongue. "Canada. _Canada_, _please_, I need you right now," he sobbed into the dead air.

Russia hopped off the last step, spinning his gun like a makeshift cane. He brought the gun up steady, fingers winding around the bolt, pulling it back and away from the gun. His hand dropped to a pocket stitched into his coat, fishing two rounds out and popping them back into the magazine of the gun before pushing the bolt back into place.

America pushed the phone to his shoulder, as if muffling it for the non-existent voice on the other end. "You can't bring a gun to a knife fight," America shrieked shrilly. "It's _man law_!"

"Is it now?" Russia said, covering a bored yawn with the back of his hand. "I have no need to prove my masculinity, therefore I see no reason to obey this 'man law'."

Russia had something wrapped around his fist. It unraveled from his hand as he walked, white and long, skulking behind Russia. It reminded America of a rat's tail. The end of it trailed along, a pronged bulb at the end hitching and bouncing along.

America turned the phone away from him, studied the back of it as best he could through watering eyes. The jack was connected, but there was no power cord for it. Russia had it.

"How did you get that?" America cried, shoving the phone away from him.

"You left it behind when you pulled it so unceremoniously from the wall." Russia dropped the rest of the cord on the floor and took up aim at the phone.

America's gaze flitted from the phone to the rifle. If the shot was fired now, the phone would shatter on impact, showering America with shards of hot plastic, lodging them within his skin. Russia was trying to flush America out, force him from beneath the desk for fear of the phone exploding.

America had enough of his wits to register the tactic, but not the energy to concoct a way to turn the situation to his advantage. Either way he'd end up without a phone, the only difference would be if he came out maimed from it.

Despite his grim situation, America remained mulishly stubborn, refusing to come out from beneath the desk. He kicked the phone, seeing it now as only a testament to his failed attempt to escape. It bounced along the floor, somersaulting as it made its way into the open.

Russia lowered his gun and stared at the phone, eyes clouding with thought. "I think that may be my only phone," he remarked quietly. "Best not to blow it up today."

"Yes, that would be for the best," America murmured back, mind slipping into a tired stupor. His fire was waning, smothered to mere embers by Russia's persistence.

With a harsh sigh Russia swung the butt of the rifle at the phone, as if he were playing a game of golf. The phone went flying to the opposite side of the room, the jack being yanked out of it by the force of the blow, but leaving the actual telephone relatively unharmed.

"You know, I may have garnered the name 'Ivan the Terrible', but I truly think you may deserve it more than I," Russia mused carelessly.

"Nah, I'm pretty sure you earned that one, you can keep it." America huddled his legs to his chest, forced himself as far back under the table he could.

"But you _are_ terrible," Russia bemoaned. He dropped his gun and went to the table, slamming his hands down, ensuring America's attention. "Like a little child, always taking and taking, never sharing. Such a horrible, nasty brat. No manners, unable to give so much as a 'thank you' when one is due."

"I don't see where you're going with this." America rested his cheek upon his knee, sniveling weakly.

"What I'm trying to say is it is clear you must be _taught_ the manners you have so obviously failed to pick up on your own."

Russia gripped the edges of the tabletop and shoved it away in one easy, fluid motion. America jerked his head up, stunned.

He stared at Russia with the wide, frightened eyes of a snared rabbit; aware of its fate, but unable to do anything to stop it. His mind screamed at him to move, begged for him to jump to his feet and make one last desperate bid for freedom, but his body refused to move, too exhausted to crawl another inch.

Russia crouched before America, settling his large, bear like paws on his shoulders. "But you will have the most wonderful teacher, I promise."

America hardly heard Russia's words, the pain that was thrumming throughout his entire body putting fear on the back-burner. His flesh was pounded and bruised from his spill down the stairs. Limbs than had run so freely were now like loosely sewn on doll's legs, threatening to come undone and spill his insides with every ragged breath.

America looked at Russia, eyelids fluttering for want of rest. He was too worn down to catch the predatory glint in Russia's eyes, seeing only shades of a deep and drowsy purple. He was drawn to them, held under their gaze, like a flute subdues a viper, swaying it gently with trilling cadences.

America didn't need to run from those eyes. They were lucid, sane, something he could trust in his bewildered and enfeebled state. Eyes couldn't lie. America honed in on them, refused to look away for even a second, even as he felt the cold slide of a hypodermic needle piercing the flesh of his aching neck, even as darkness veiled his vision, he couldn't look away.

_A/N: Okay, so as the last chapter's notes mention, I was planning on updating this every Wednesday. I think instead I will simply update it ever few days until it's caught up to what I've written (just finished chapter seven today), and then once it's current with my livejournal, I will go back to updating on Wednesdays._

_Not that it changes anything, but I think this is favorite chapter out of the whole story so far._

_One last thing, I apologize for being really crummy at responding to reviews. I'm new to and a blundering fool who can't keep this stuff in order, but I'm certainly going to try to be more on the ball about it from now on.  
_


	4. Chapter 4

America couldn't remember waking up, only that he was suddenly in an otherworldly amount of pain, and that he wasn't in his own bedroom. There was no in between for sleep and wakefulness, only hurting and oblivion. He shut his eyes tightly and rolled onto his side, trying to relieve the agony that was crowding his thoughts. The change was negligible at best.

The soft clinking noise of the door unlocking drew his attention, if only momentarily, away from his brooding. He sat up as best he could, smoothing down the sheets while plastering on a mocking smile. It would've been nice to have another paperweight to chuck.

The door slid open to reveal Russia, not that America had been expecting anyone else. A gleaming pipe was tucked beneath his arm, like a morning newspaper. A silent _I dare you_, urging America to try rebelling, a wordless threat that such actions would not be tolerated again.

"Good evening," Russia intoned flatly, hooking the toe of his boot around the door to shut it. He carried a tray of food to America's bedside, setting it down neatly on the incapacitated man's lap.

America eyed it. Dark bread with a generous helping of unmelted butter, a plain bottle of water, and what looked to be a saucer of milk. "What is this?"

"Breakfast."

"But you said 'good evening', shouldn't it be 'dinner'?"

Russia shrugged, as if he had not the smallest interest in their conversation. "It is your first real meal of the day."

America poked at the saucer. "Is this milk?"

"Yes, I assume you are familiar with such a beverage."

"Milk is the drink of _champions,_ of course I know what it is. But why is it in this little cup?"

"Because you are sweet, and yet so feisty. Like a little kitten, and they drink from dainty saucers, do they not?"

America took a moment to wrap his mind around Russia's explanation, but could not completely grasp it, able only to comprehend that it was weird, and weird was _wrong._

"There should be a task force whose _sole_ job is to keep you from speaking. And I mean _always_ keep you from speaking."

Russia cleared his throat and crossed his arms, the pipe catching America's eyes as it shifted. "I cannot help but think you are unhappy here."

America snorted derisively. "Spot on, and you want to know why?"

"I _know_ why," Russia growled, his words short and tight with irritation. "Now eat your breakfast before I feed it to the floor."

America rolled his eyes before turning them to his food. It looked relatively safe and untainted. At least the water bottle's seal was still intact. He lifted the piece of bread to his mouth and took a tentative nibble. It tasted relatively poison free to his untrained palette. America decided it wasn't an immediate threat his health, and took a hearty bite.

He took a sip of water next, watching Russia from the corner of his eye, waiting for some kind of bombshell. Any second Russia would tell him the world through his window was actually a painted scene, that they were really hiding out in an underground bunker, or every other being on Earth was _dead._

Russia simply sat quietly, observing America with the trained eyes of a bird watcher. He announced no threats to America's health, there was no boasting about imprisoning a world power, not even the slightest hint at the plans he must have had in store for his captive.

America finished his food and drink, save for the saucer of milk, and pushed the tray away, wincing as the edge pressed into his injured palm. He drew his hand away to examine it.

White, fluffy gauze was taped over his wound in a manner that assured him it had been applied by experienced hands. The lightest dab of cottony-pink blood had seeped through it. America's tongue peeked between his lips in concentration as he set to picking at the tape.

"Don't." Russia batted America's hand away from the bandage. "I won't have you picking at your stitches like a recently neutered dog, you are above such thing."

America raised a single eyebrow. "I'm _above_ such things? I thought I was pretty much dirt in your eyes."

"You've thrown dirt in my eyes before, both metaphorically and physically, but I have never _said_ you are dirt in my eyes."

A distrustful frown flicked across America's lips. "Yeah, sure." He picked the tray up, careful to avoid pressing on his cut, and set it in Russia's lap. "I'm all fed and watered now, you can beat it."

Russia stood and gave an understanding nod as he lifted the tray up. He exited without a word of farewell, only a quick walk to the door, a bit of fussing to get it opened while holding the tray, and then the shut and click of Russia locking it from the outside.

America returned to laying on his side, dull pain continuing to course through his veins. He curled in on himself, teeth grinding and snapping as his neck pulsed with tightly cinched pain. He kicked his feet to disperse some of his pent up screams by lashing out with his feet, kicking and tangling them in the sheets of the bed, eyes watering as red hot lashes of fire burned through his bad ankle.

"Would you like something for your discomfort?"

America lurched upright, a hand instinctively rising to his mouth to withhold a startled gasp. "Didn't you _leave?_"

"Only to wash the dishes," Russia politely informed him, hovering over America as he studied him. "Why don't I bring you some fresh clothes?"

"Nothing wrong with these ones," America grumbled, looking down at himself. His jacket had dark splotches of dried blood, but they were hardly noticeable in comparison to the more vivid spots on his pale shirt. "Well, it's not _that_ bad," he tacked on.

Russia was already at the dresser, rifling through the top drawer. America's shoulders tightened as he watched Russia go through his things, exploring the clothes that America wore outside of their structured meetings and conferences.

"I didn't give you permission to go through my stuff!" With the stiffness of the elderly, America managed to crawl his way out of bed and hobbled over to Russia. "They're mine for a reason."

"Yes, I'm sure they are." Russia pulled a knit top from the drawer. It unfurled under his hands, creating a hand-crafted landscape of frolicking reindeer and small elves with disproportionately short limbs in comparison to the rest of their bodies.

"It was a gift," America mumbled, the tips of his ears reddening.

Russia made a disbelieving noise and folded the top back up, carefully returning it to the drawer. He pulled out a dark blue number and shook it, his gaze sweeping the length of the fabric. He held it up against America's frame for a moment, head cocking to the side as he hummed with thought.

Russia's eyes glittered with judgement, like a man perusing a line-up of women on the street, deciding which one was most worth being solicited, and America happened to have the look he went for. America's fists clenched with dry tension, lower lip jutting out in defiance to being regarded as a piece of meat.

"This will do**,**" Russia smiled, voice harboring an almost imperceptible dreamy quality.

America shrugged off his jacket and checked the pockets, making sure nothing of value would go through the wash. His fingers met only with the touch of thin plastic. He pulled it out, recognizing it as the clear bag he had used to carry goldfish in. His little book of crossword puzzles should have been with it.

"What did you do with my puzzles?"

"The same thing you did to your neck," Russia answered nonsensically, and almost too quickly.

"My neck?" America raised a self conscious hand to his neck, fingers lingering over his flesh, but never coming into contact.

"Yes, it has an awful bruise," Russia remarked, voice lilting with the stirrings of concern.

"What does it look like?"

"Like a man chasing a duck."

"Does it really?" America gaped.

"_No_," Russia snorted coldly. "It's a bruise, not a Rorschach ink blot test."

"Oh, I get it," America muttered back, tucking a lock of hair behind his ears and letting his gaze fall to the floor. "But what I was asking was if it looked bad or not."

"I would not consider 'bad' to be sufficiently descriptive of how it looks."

"Then how bad is it?"

"Enough so that it warrants a turtleneck," Russia responded, holding the dark shirt out to America.

America dropped his jacket to the floor and took the shirt from Russia before turning around. He raised his bad ankle in the air, balancing precariously as he hung the top on his knee so that he would have both hands free to finish undressing.

He grasped the hem of his shirt and began to slowly pull it upwards, shimmying his hips so that he wouldn't fall over. Gloved hands grasped at his waist the moment the skin was exposed. America stiffened in surprise, only to overbalance a second later. But Russia's grip held firm, keeping America upright.

"Hands off the merchandise, bub." America swatted at Russia's hands. "I'm trying to change here."

"Then don't put on a show."

"I'm not putting on a show," America barked indignantly. "I'd like to see you change on one foot."

"I've done more difficult things before." Russia gripped loosened a fraction, shifting from unemotional and disconnected to something slightly more tender.

America wriggled and twisted, trying again to lose Russia's touch. "Can't you leave for like five minutes? I can dress myself." He paused. "And I gotta piss too, where the heck is the bathroom?"

Russia relinquished his hold on America and went to shoulder a tower of boxes aside, revealing a plain door that America had failed to notice. "There you go. Five minutes, that's all you get." He was gone before America could throw a snide 'thanks' at his back.

After relieving himself, America made his way back to the bed with a heavy limp. He sat upon the rumpled sheets, taking his time as he pulled the shirt over his head. The brisk air of the room was a welcome touch as it brushed along his skin, and he sighed with the momentary bliss of interrupted pain.

After giving his arms a good stretch, America set to putting the clean top on. He quickly pulled it over his head, expression becoming scrunched as the cloth clung to his face. Fingers clawed at the fabric and he gasped dramatically as his head popped out of the neck.

He looked down automatically at his stomach as he went to pull the shirt over it, but was stopped by the sight of his skin. Bruises blossomed over his flesh, sickening greens and jarring blues sat arrogantly upon his torso, as if the blood from his previous shirt had been so heavy it had seeped through the fabric, tattooing itself upon his skin.

America cringed at the bruised canvas of his body and quickly pulled the shirt down as far as it would go, fingers nervously playing with a few frayed edges. Changing his jeans was out of the question, even if he knew without looking that they were ruined as well. He didn't want to see how much of the color spectrum his ankle had collected.

Shaking fingers moved up to America's hair, searching for an outlet for their energy. He haphazardly fluffed his hair, running his fingers from root to tip through downy locks before shaking his head as carefully as he could without causing an explosion of agony in his neck. The door opened again.

Russia's voice wafted through the opening, like words on the wind. "Are you decent?"

"Even if I said no, you'd still come in."

Russia slipped into the room with a condescending smile, though it had a certain brightness to it. "Such brash assumptions you make, my little sparrow."

"I thought I was your '_panicky little bird'_?" America sneered as he recalled the words.

"Oh, first and foremost you will always be my panicky little bird." The mattress dipped as Russia took a seat next to America, his hand lazily falling on America's thigh. "Throwing yourself against the bars of your cage again and again until your body is nothing but bruised and mangled bones, with wings too broken to fly."

America shuddered, his heart fluttering. He looked around the room, doing anything he could to avoid looking at Russia. He took in the boxes again, thought about the little baubles and bits they held. Those things were for him. Small toys meant for him amuse himself with in his cage, like the mirrors and cuttlebones birds were so prone to play with.

"I meant that as a compliment, you know," Russia added once he saw America had no intention of responding.

"That's, uh─" America searched for a response that wouldn't get his lights knocked out. "Something, I guess."

Russia gave his leg a squeeze, and America's blood jumped. He fought not to show it outwardly. He wouldn't let Russia get a rile out of him, give him a reason to strike America down. Russia continued in his touching of America unobstructed, fingers trickling down to his kneecap before crawling back up to his thigh.

Russia's touch was not wholly unpleasant to America, but it was not wanted all the same. America struggled to ignore the hand, but found the only thing he could concentrate on was the continuous pain that wracked his body, throbbing with every beat of his heart.

Sweat beaded on America's forehead, the fringe of his bangs becoming matted and sticky. His muscles trembled with unwanted weakness and exhaustion. The redness that had been nibbling on the tips of his ears spread, licking down the length of his neck, scuttling over his skin.

America wallowed in a pit of irritation as the petting, and his pain, continued on unchecked. He was fairly confident that he could handle one or the other, but not together. Pain was preferable. To America, anything was preferable to Russia's touch.

Russia made a noise in his throat, a haunting and almost musical sound, like wind singing from the mouth of a cavern. America gritted his teeth as he looked at Russia; or rather, the small spot between his eyebrows that America would have liked to plant a punch, or a lead bullet, in.

"You have the eyes of a dove," Russia softly murmured. "So gentle and benign, impassive to the cars that race below you, unaware of the hawk that will soon drop from the sky and snatch you. I wish I could take them from you, have them as my own."

America's expression fell to one of extreme discomfort. "Remember that task force I mentioned earlier?"

"Yes."

"I _meant_ it."

Russia chuckled good-naturedly, letting the insult slide off him, but withdrew his hand from America's thigh. America arched his lower back out and rubbed at it, trying to work out the kinks that had nestled against his spine. The air seemed to ripple and tense as they continued to exist in silence.

America looked his bandaged hand over, turning it over to observe the gauze. He figured a compliment would help smooth over his previous jabs. "So, this bandage─" he gestured with the arm, shaking it at Russia. "─It was, uh, not the worst thing you could have done." America grimaced at the poorly worded 'thank you', hoping Russia would read between the lines to see the true meaning.

"You're welcome," Russia responded.

Despite himself, and the situation he has in, America grinned. He was tempted to turn the charm on to disarm Russia, or at least attempt some kind of half-friendship. Not that he wanted one, but certain things were necessities. Befriending captors was pretty high on the list of ways to survive being kidnapped.

America glanced at the ceiling without really seeing it, running through things to say in order to butter up Russia. He could compliment Russia, which was wrong, and awful, and not some a hero would do. Villains deserved nothing but curses, or─

"Hey, I got a great idea," America piped up.

"Tell me more," Russia prompted.

"C'mon now, hear me out just for a few─ Oh, wait." America found his tongue momentarily tied, stumbling over confused words. "Er, well I was thinking, you say a lot of creepy things."

"And you say many blunt things." Russia fell back on the mattress, arms spread out on the sheets, legs still hooked over the edge of the bed.

"But that's _me_, we're talking about _you._" America's smile bloomed into a full on movie star grin. "I'm going to help you not say such creepy things, it'll be fun!"

"And in return, I will teach you to speak with more tact?"

America barked out a laugh at the absurdity of the notion, and followed suit in falling on the bed, the back of his head connecting with Russia's forearm. There was a small gap where America could have acknowledged the inadvertent touch, muttered something in protest and repositioned himself, made crystal clear how much he loathed the contact. He let it pass.

"Pay me a compliment," America prompted, he was so used to getting them on a daily basis he was growing to miss them, and decided even Russia's were worth hearing, no matter how odd.

"I wish I could rip the warmth from your voice and wrap it around me like a blanket."

"Okay, that was a solid start, it really was," America encouraged. The words had a kind cadence that made his skin tingle pleasantly, but such sincerity that it also made his throat tighten instinctively. "Let's try again. This time without mention of ripping things."

"I want to steal─"

"No stealing, either."

"When I look into your eyes," Russia began, stopping to see if America approved.

"Good, good, I like where this is going."

"─I only want to punch you in the face a little bit."

"_Russia,_" America groaned, turning his head to look at him. "How can you be so utterly unable to give a good compliment?"

Russia's pale lips quirked up at the corners. A playful light flickered behind his eyes, dancing in and out of view as America studied them. America pushed himself up on his hands and looked down his nose at Russia. He was being played for a fool. Russia was coming up with inappropriate compliments on purpose, yanking America's chain for his own amusement.

"Do you not like my kind words to you?" Russia asked, laughter trailing on his breath.

"You're just messing with me." America cheeks puffed into a childish pout.

"But it is helping, is it not?"

"Helping with what? Annoying the heck out of me? Because that's pretty much all you're accomplishing."

"Distracting you from your pain," Russia answered lightly.

"Oh," America paused, registering Russia's intentions behind his poorly-worded compliments. They weren't meant to intentionally creep America out, or if they were, that was not their first objective. They were simple sentences to distract him from the aches of his body, the cries of his bones.

"I'll have to assume it worked."

"Couldn't you have done something _conventional_, like given me painkillers?" America lowered himself back down on the bed, pulling his legs up, body curled towards Russia's.

"No matter how many assurances I gave, I cannot imagine you swallowing pills that have come from my hands," Russia said, words tapering off into a wistful sigh.

"Fair enough."

"However, I will always be happy to supply you with enough vodka to drink your pains away." Russia flashed America a toothy smile, one that suggested he had tried such a remedy many times before and found it particularly helpful.

"Couldn't hurt," America shrugged, having come to the conclusion that Russia didn't spike drinks.

"Wonderful!" Russia exclaimed, arms darting in a flurry to grab America before pulling him close to his body. Russia hugged America like a boy hugs his dog when it has responded to its name for the very first time. A hug that sang of a friendship that would evolve into something unbreakable by time or distance.

"You're hurting me," America lied, starting to rethink his plan to become buddy-buddy with Russia.

If America and Russia were to become friends, it would be a _permanent_ relationship. Once you made a friend, they would always be your friend. Even on the battlefield, with guns leveled at each other's chest, you couldn't simply erase what had been. Memories, thoughts, feelings and experiences would always live on.

Even as friends were parted, either by mere drifting, or wretched apart by destiny and war, they would always know your weaknesses and fears, what made you tick inside. America couldn't trust Russia with that knowledge, even if it meant he got the same in return from him.

Russia let go of America as he started to squirm in his arms, getting up from the bed only to drop to the floor on his hands and knees. America watched with cautious eyes as Russia looked under the bed before pulling out a bottle of vodka.

"Always good to keep a little something hidden away," Russia said, handing the bottle over.

One hour and a mostly empty vodka bottle later, America decided it was as good a time as any to get to the thick of things. Like why he was still breathing.

"Commie boy," America started in a loose Southern drawl, the one that only showed up when he was tipsy. "I do believe I have a question for you."

"I will do my best to answer." Russia had moved back to his chair, allowing America to hoard the bed with his sprawled limbs.

"I don't mean this like no philosophizer, or your modern day Aristotle, but _why am I here?_" America strained the last few words, the tendons in his neck straining.

"Because I brought you here." Russia fished America's glasses from his face and tried them on.

"Give those back, snow man." America waved his bottle at Russia. "I'll trade you for them."

Russia took the bottle from America's hands and set it on the nightstand before placing the glasses back in America's waiting palm. "These are terrible, how can you see with them?"

"More like, how _can't _I see with them," America sputtered. "And you're avoiding my question."

"Yes, yes I am," Russia said, unashamed.

"Look, I don't know if you're aware of this, but I need to leave. So the sooner we get this all worked out the better."

"Things are not as simple as that."

"Tell me about it," America groused.

"I see no better way to pass the time," Russia conceded, readjusting his scarf so that it was wrapped quite snuggle about his neck. "What do you know of chess?"

"Chess is for _assholes_," America laughed, rolling around on his back. "And for people who have no lives. Sometimes both."

"Do you know the pieces in chess?" Russia went on, ignoring America's thoughts regarding the game.

"Of course I do."

"And do you know their values?"

"I know the Queen is the bee's knees, but that the King is where it's all at."

"That's right, yes, but there's more to it. For example, a pawn had a value of one. A knight has a value of three─"

"Don't care," America huffed. "Doesn't have anything to do with me being stuck here."

"But it does, America." Russia moved in a fluid motion, switching from the chair to America's bed to blot out the ceiling, effectively making himself the center of America's attention. "Lithuania, Estonia, and all the rest of them, pawns. Little pieces with a worth of only one."

America turned his head to look away, he didn't want to hear talk of nations being referred to as meaningless pawns, as objects to sacrifice in order to come out on top. Russia cupped America's cheek and gently eased his head back, forcing America to look at him.

"This is not something you want to hear, but it is the simplest way I can explain it." He absentmindedly stroked America's cheek, his expression bleak and far away. "All my pieces are gone now. Stolen away from me so that they may live their miserable little lives without interference."

"I'm just another little pawn for you to play with, is that what you're getting at?"

Russia laughed to himself and shook his head before casting a patronizing look at America, like the look a Mother might give her child after they've asked if the moon is truly made of cheese. "You are not a simple pawn, America. You're one of the strongest countries there are, the king of the world, one might say. And as for the King in chess, his value is limitless."

America blushed at Russia's words. To think himself a king, a ruler, was something he had only indulged in during his childhood bath times, waging war with toy boats and a soapsud army. But there was no denying that deep down, in the spot behind his heart where all his secrets slept, he liked the idea.

"Let me guess, you want to tag team it up and rule the world?" America supplied, struggling to keep his words from becoming drunken and disjointed slurs.

Russia thoughtfully tapped his chin. "In a sense, yes. But perhaps not in the way you're considering it. As you have previously mentioned, the king is at the top of the food chain, but only when it comes to the board. You must remember that in actuality, it is the player who calls the shots."

America rubbed his eyes, as if to make the situation clearer. "And you're the player?"

"Exactly," Russia chirped, clapping his hands together once. "While the other pieces don't trust me enough to listen to my orders, they'll listen to their King."

"What makes you think their 'King' is going to listen to you?"

"That's the beauty of it all, America," Russia said as he stood, wrapping around himself in a self-assured embrace.. "Even if you don't want to dance, I am the one pulling the strings."


	5. Chapter 5

For several days after Russia's talk of puppets and kings, America would not speak. Every inquest Russia made regarding his health and well-being was met with stony silence and folded arms. America refused to give him an opportunity to weasel sensitive information from him, and didn't trust his own tongue enough to be sure it wouldn't accidentally spill a secret or two.

Eventually, Russia stopped coming. America would wake up every morning to find a breakfast fit for a king set on his nightstand, and, once emptied, the plates refilled themselves after he slipped into fitful dreams. Every few days, the dirty clothes he tossed on the floor would disappear in the night, only to return to his drawers in neatly folded piles the next time he peeked in.

Unsettled that Russia could slip in and out without notice, America concocted a plan to alert himself. Every evening he would create a barricade before the door. He pushed and shoved and piled boxes to ridiculous heights, sure that they would topple in the morning. It worked like a charm.

America's alarm clock became the noise of smashing trinkets and crumpling cardboard. Russia paid no mind to the noise, his face remaining completely passive and distant as America bolted up in bed. He approached the dresser with a few pairs of jeans hung over his arm and proceeded to deposit them as if nothing had happened.

Before he left, Russia removed the boxes that had fallen, using the side of his shoe to sweep up bits of shattered glass. He never looked at America, and if he felt America's eyes boring holes in his head, he never acknowledged it. After repeating his box-building exercise a few times, America's room had been mostly cleared of them. He had to find a new way to make Russia miserable.

America eventually worked out a kind of schedule, despite the lack of working clocks and the fact that the sky was almost always the same boring shade of gray. He could always hear Russia as he moved through the house, whether it be day or night. Like a rat slithering and scraping through the walls, the noise always caught America's attention.

Every day, when the sky was barely beginning to lighten, America would hear the twist of taps and the spouting of water. If he strained his ear, he was sure he could hear the rustle of a shower curtain being pulled back. America began to stay up through the long hours of blackness to hop in the shower right before he thought Russia would.

America usually played it safe, turning the water on the moment he heard Russia start to move about. He took to sitting on the tub floor, if only to relieve his swollen ankle as he let the warm water sluice over his body, letting it wash away sweat and grime. Only when the water took on a chilled edge did America turn it off, satisfied that he had robbed Russia of a steaming hot shower for the morning to come.

After a few consecutive days of spoiling showers, America was blasted by a jet of ice while in the middle of washing his hair. He yelped loudly and clamored to his feet in a rush, hauling himself out of the shower as he was pelted by painfully cold water.

A laugh sounded from the other room, and America knew Russia had turned his faucet on once he was sure America was washing up. America punched the wall he figured connected his room to Russia's a few times and yelled nonsense at it for good measure. He waited until after Russia had finished his shower to take his own after that.

One day America left the bathroom to find his sheets changed and bed made. He clutched at the towel wrapped around his waist and crept closer. Several square pieces of paper lay stacked on his pillow. America looked around to see if Russia was waiting in the shadows. He'd never left anything besides food and clothes before.

Making sure his fingers were dry, and picked up the first paper. It was a newspaper clipping. Small, perfectly square boxes ran in horizontal and vertical lines, all of them empty and waiting for letters. Sentences typed up in Cyrillic lay beneath the boxes. A crossword puzzle.

Except it was in Russian, and America had no idea what in the hell the clues, let alone the words, were meant to be. America looked the clippings over carefully, each one causing more and more frustration to well up within his chest. He didn't know if Russia was actually trying to give him something to do, or mocking him for not knowing the language of the land.

America grabbed the pencil on his nightstand and held the tip to the puzzles. It was futile to try solving them, but since he and Russia were nothing but ships passing in the night, he might as well set off a flare to get his attention. America gnawed lightly on the metal bit that held the eraser in place as he thought of what to write.

Two across, "**I can't**" Eight down, "_Read Russian_." America debated writing an insult in eleven down, but decided his results would be better if he refrained from name calling. He slipped the papers under the slat of the door and waited for results.

After his shower the next morning, America found the puzzle returned with a new piece of paper that held a translation of the clues. To top it all off, a tin of mixed nuts was waiting on his breakfast tray. Despite England's constant reminders that America was what he ate, and the fact that they made his tongue feel weird and kind of fat, America _loved_ nuts.

Tossing an almond in his mouth, America looked over Russia's notes. His handwriting wasn't all that shabby, really. Something about it was authoritative, like whoever wrote it knew exactly what they were doing and how to do it best. It flowed in the familiar mixture of print and cursive, but the flicks of Russia's script made it appear like a new and exotic language to his eyes.

Stirrings of embarrassment curled around America's shoulders as he thought about his own handwriting, an unintelligible mix of chicken scratch and squiggles that often appeared on the notes of doctors. America couldn't fully explain it to himself, but the comparison caused him to feel slightly _lesser_ than Russia, as if handwriting were an indicator of intelligence.

America shook off his handwriting worries and went back to the translation. He started with one across, "Speak loudly." Easy enough, he knew the answer had to be 'yell', and he wrote the word in. It left him with three empty spaces. The word quickly disappeared under the shadow of an eraser.

He tried 'shout' next, not stopping to count how many letters were in the word. He had two empty spaces with that attempt. The eraser hovered of the word as America made to wipe it clean, but a thought struck him. The clues were now in English, but the word needed was still in Russian. He was back to square one.

America went to scribble a big "Never mind" across the notes, but found the pencil in his hand was being decidedly disobedient, refusing to touch the paper before him. America took to nibbling at it again as punishment and figured it would be best to sit Russia down and explain to him exactly _why_ giving him things written in Russian wasn't particularly helpful.

The night that greeted America was colder than any he had experienced so far in Russia's home. The biting chill that slipped under the door and crept through the windows kept America up all night, limbs shivering, teeth chattering. He melted into a singular being with his sheets, huddled beneath them as a hermit crab hides within its shell.

The familiar sound of water rushing through pipes snapped America awake as he started to nod off. He jerked up in bed and flung the covers off, rolling out of bed. He stood against the wall closest to Russia's bathroom, back absorbing the vibrations. The chattering of his teeth began to die as the white glow of the sun gnawed its way through the overcast sky began to pool through the window.

When the vibrations petered out, America groggily stumbled to his own bathroom. He had devised what he thought to be a most brilliant plan in talking to Russia. Writing a note and slipping it under the door was too mundane and straightforward for America's taste. He liked the thrill of things falling into place, of dominoes knocking together in _just_ the right way.

America wrenched the taps on and ducked back before the blast of the shower could hit him. He didn't test the water, didn't pull his clothes off, didn't show any interest in actually getting wet. Instead he went back to his room, socked feet softly padding along the cold floor as he approached the door.

America backed into the small spot behind the door, silently hoping Russia wouldn't open it all the way. He didn't envy the idea of getting smashed between the wall and the door, only wanting to be able to hide for a moment when Russia entered with breakfast.

After a few minutes of impatient waiting, America heard the approaching thud of Russia's footsteps. He hugged the wall tightly and closed his eyes, counting the steps as they neared his room. The doorknob rattled, turned clockwise, and cracked open.

America held his breath as he came within inches of bumping against the door, his body continuing to flatten itself against the wall as best it could. He breathed a sigh of relief through his nose as it stopped short, the knob just barely kissing the small of his back.

Russia entered the room, carrying the usual tray in his hands, entirely unaware that America was spying on him from around the edge of the door. America watched with wide and inquisitive eyes as Russia set his breakfast down and turned to his bed. Russia lingered at the bedside, very slowly straightening the covers, running a hand in an almost loving manner over the single pillow.

America shuffled from his hiding place and advanced towards Russia's back. He stopped a few feet short, unsure of exactly how to broach the subject of crossword puzzles with Russia standing before him. Russia was so broad, so huge, imposing even when he wasn't trying to be. He wouldn't care about America's desires for a puzzle he could understand, he'd probably laugh it off and cuff America about the head. Best not to ask about it.

Turning to tip toe back to his hiding space, America's feet became entangled, his ankle hooking across his calf for a split second. He uttered a small cry of surprise as his arms windmilled momentarily, returning his balance. A leaden weight slammed into his back.

America hit the floor seeing white. Beautiful, endless white before his eyes, and he _felt_ the white. It crackled in his lungs, splintered across his back, stole his breath away. It filled his ears with a blank melody, a siren's call beckoning him to give in, float away.

A heavy weight fell across his body, pinning him to the floor. It was like being captured in a living net, held down and unable to get away, keeping him from the white. "Don't move," growled a voice in his ears, jagged with irritation, piercing the blankness in America's mind. He lay still and waited for his wits to return, the consuming brilliance ebbing and retreating, replaced by the crashing of water against the bottom of the tub.

"I can't believe you hit me with your stupid pipe," America muttered, dazed thoughts beginning to link themselves together. He was pretty sure that was what took him down.

"I can't believe you tried to run away yet again," Russia returned, the breath of his words sliding against America's cheek. "And," he added, "I could have hit you much harder."

"Run away again?" America tried to push himself back up, but found his arms were snagged behind his back, no doubt being held in place by Russia. "Let me go, bub."

"Give me a good reason." Russia stood, releasing America's wrists only to roughly grab his shoulders and yank him back to his feet, fingers digging like talons as they gripped America.

Shying away from the pain to no avail, America rolled his shoulders and winced. "I don't have a good reason, but if you give me a sec I'll tell you one." America's feet were belligerent from the fall, barely allowing him to stay upright. He slung his arms around Russia's neck, breaking the hold on his shoulders and relieving his feet of their weight.

Russia's arms snaked around his waist without hesitation, wrapping tightly to keep America still. America assured himself it was all for his balance, and nothing more, inwardly denying that even the slightest blush touched his cheeks. He tried concentrating on other things, like how he was going to kick Russia's ass once he got his wits about him.

"I'm sorry," Russia murmured softly, "but I can't have you leaving me."

"I wasn't trying to, seriously." America's arms loosened, slid from Russia's neck and down his chest. Russia kept his hold on America's waist. America decided to rest his head against Russia's shoulder for a moment. _Just a minute more_, he thought, _and I'll have my bearings._

Russia swung America around in an instant, tossing him on the bed like a rag doll. Before America could react the open door slammed loudly, the noise echoing in the small room and rattling America's body. Russia made his way back to America, dipping momentarily to snatch his pipe back up from the floor.

"Don't throw me around like that!" America barked, more than a little startled. He hadn't expected things to go so poorly.

"Explain to me why you were trying to sneak out the door," Russia snarled back, smacking the pipe repeatedly into the flat of his palm as he neared the bed.

Panicked tears welled in America's eyes as he watched the pipe. The first hit hadn't been so bad, but the darkened expression of malice that played across Russia's face turned his blood to burning ice. He let out a yelp of fear as Russia brought the pipe down on the foot of his bed, scuttling towards the headboard to avoid being hit.

"I just wanted to talk to you," America cried, the pent up tears spilling down his cheeks. Russia looked undeterred. "Please," America begged, his voice cracking with desperation. "Please don't," he sobbed, too far gone to care about the scene he was making.

Russia swung the pipe like a bat straight at America's face, and America squeezed his eyes shut, his heart choking up in his chest, waiting for the impact, an impact that never came. The pipe stopped short of his face, hovering in the air before America's face.

"Open your eyes," Russia prompted.

America chanced a glance and burst in to fresh tears at the sight, overwhelmed beyond words. He should have known not to try to sneak up on Russia, especially when the door to his room was open. He'd gotten too comfortable with him in captivity, entertained the idea that maybe Russia wasn't all bad. But now he was going to pay for his mistakes by getting his skull bashed in after being played with, and he couldn't handle the thought.

The pipe dropped with a dull thud onto the sheets. Russia knelt with one knee on the bed and pried America's hands away from his face as they wiped at the flood of tears. America reared away from his touch, shooting Russia a wild look.

Russia's face was lined with concern, his lips drawn into a pensive, if not concerned, frown. "America. America, did I really frighten you?" he asked timidly, "I was only playing, yes? Only a little game." America continued to bawl away.

Russia sighed sadly and stopped trying to tug on America's hands, instead letting his own rest on America's head, carefully combing through his blond locks. He murmured quiet things in Russian, posed what America thought might be questions, and generally babbled softly, all the while trying to lure America away from his fright.

America's hitching sobs soon petered out, withering into miserable, shaking breaths, shuddering shoulders, and quietly cried tears. He huddled his knees to his chest and hugged them. "That was the worst game ever," he managed between hiccups.

"You will have to forgive me," Russia hastily implored. "And there is something you must understand. At times my emotions are like children, unintentionally petty and cruel, even uncontrollable. But never do I mean to hurt you." He weaseled his way onto the bed and gathered America up in his arms. "Never," he repeated in a hoarse whisper.

The fear and adrenaline that had been pulsing through America's veins faded to steady wariness, the tremors that licked over his body lightening up. America wasn't sure about Russia's excuse that it had been a game, one that Russia could have ended at any time. It was only a poor cover up for slamming America in the back with a pipe, and then scaring him half to death. Fear was always a good tool for control, after all.

Or maybe he was on page forty of a five page book, reading too deeply into things that didn't exist. Russia's knee-jerk reaction with hitting the first time made sense. Not that America was thinking that it was _okay_, only that he could kind of, maybe, sort of see why Russia had done it.

But what had happened after that, America didn't want to think about. This once, he'd believe Russia, believe that it was only a little game of chicken, where he wouldn't have gotten hurt no matter what. For now, he just wanted to stop crying and pull himself together.

America tried to force himself to forget that Russia was the one holding him and calming his nerves. He kept his eyes shut and pretended he was held against someone he wanted to be around, like Santa, even if he didn't exist. He had to do what he had to do to get through it all, and England always fell back on imaginary things when he was stressed.

America sighed as his muscles relaxed slightly, the image of Santa's jovial face burning into his mind. His fingers wound into the coat that was pressing against his cheek, inhaling the stark smell of the fabric. A hand wandered up and down his back, performing a subtle waltz of strokes and taps, careful to avoid the budding throb of pain that was becoming increasingly more vivid.

"America," Russia said, breaking the illusion America was trying to create for himself. "I need to turn the water off, but I'll be back in a moment." He let go of America and stood from the bed, making a motion with his hand to stay as if America were a dog.

America stayed put as he watched Russia disappear into the bathroom, listening as the taps were turned off. His heart had settled back into its appropriate spot, and America was decidedly less teary eyed, having used Russia's scarf as a tissue when he was sure it wouldn't be noticed.

Russia stepped from the bathroom, pipe held in his arms. America blinked and looked over the sheets, unsure as to when Russia had taken it back. There was nothing but a few wrinkled puzzles mixed between the covers. His eyes flicked back to Russia, flitting from the pipe to his face.

Russia hardly looked like he was about to attack America again. His eyes were wide, taking on an almost childish edge; he shifted his weight from foot to foot, worried and nervous. His pipe was held in his arms not as a weapon, but for comfort, something to hold and pet and keep close to his heart.

"Are you okay?" America wasn't sure why he even bothered asking. It wasn't like he cared, but Russia's expression stoked his protective tendencies.

Russia gave an unsure nod, like he was trying to give the answer America thought he wanted, but hadn't completely figured out what it might be.

"I mean it, man. You looked kind of bummed out." America collected the crosswords as he spoke.

"I think you would be feeling similarly if your pet kept trying to run away," Russia said honestly, eyes cloud and downcast, lower lip rolling between his teeth.

The papers crumpled in America's hands. "Stop talking about me like that. I wasn't trying to leave, and I'm not your pet. You're as bad as England, always treating me like a child."

"Being treated as a pet and being treated a child are entirely different," Russia said, the words quickly rolling from his tongue. "It is much better to be a pet. There are no responsibilities, unlike children, with their schooling and chores and trivial interactions with those around them. A pet is permitted to laze about without a worry and simply be beautiful, providing its master with unending and deserved companionship."

America processed what Russia was saying slowly. He'd never thought about it in the terms Russia was explaining him, in terms that sounded almost desirable. He shook his head and threw one of the puzzles at Russia, distracting himself from the idea.

"These crosswords _suck_," he blurted.

Russia stared blankly at America for a moment, hands loosening on his pipe. He placed it on the dresser before picking up the ruined papers from the floor. "But I thought you liked them," he said quietly, trying to smooth the puzzles out again. "Is that why you want to leave, because you do not enjoy these?"

America grit his teeth together. "Let's get this straight, okay? I wasn't leaving! Why is this so hard for you to comprehend? I wanted to talk to you about these stupid puzzles."

Russia gave up on fixing the wadded up papers and let them fall back to the floor. "And so you tried to sneak out the door?"

"No, I was hiding behind the door to begin with, I was just going back there." America's voice came out in an exasperated hiss.

Russia rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You are not doing yourself any favors with these lies." Before America could protest, Russia shot him a sympathetic look. "But I think I know why you are doing this, my little dove. Acting out, fighting against something you cannot beat. You are sad in your cage, yes? You must want to stretch your wings a bit."

America regarded Russia with a suspicious look. He didn't know where their one-sided conversation was going, but he wasn't totally against finding out.

"Will you perhaps behave yourself for me if I were to let you step off your perch and out of your cage?"

A surprised smile broke across America's face, all eagerness and hope, bright eyes and gleaming teeth. Forgetting himself for a moment, America tugged at Russia's sleeve, childlike, urgent. "Can I really get out of here?" he asked excitedly.

"If you mind yourself, you may." Russia got to his feet and offered his hands to America, pulling him up when his offer was accepted.

"Let's get this show on the road." America made to pull his hands away, but Russia gripped them tighter, giving a slight tug to pull America closer, their bodies bumping together in a clumsy moment.

"First you must make me a promise," Russia said, leaning in close to America's face.

"I'll see what I can do." America pitched back awkwardly, unsettled by their physical closeness.

"No more tears from you."

Lips brushed along the fragile and reddened skin of America's eyes, softly kissing at the remaining tears, the barest hint of tongue tasting them. America shuddered, a wave of bashfulness sweeping through his veins as he turned his head to the side. "Not a problem," he muttered.

"Good." Russia led America to the door before letting go. He opened it and smiled, shy and devious, like he was breaking the rules and _enjoying_ it. "You first."

_A/N:_

_I will be your best friend until time and light it rent from the Earth if you point out any typos!  
_


	6. Chapter 6

Little bursts of giddiness went off in America's chest as he was escorted out of his room. Eager eyes scanned the hallway, taking it in as if he had never seen it before. Without adrenaline burning through his veins, he was able to better appreciate the seemingly endless, and nearly daunting, corridor.

Trepidation tingled along his spine as he absorbed the sight. The walls were coated with a deep red wallpaper, raised damask designs standing out against the cranberry shades. Several portraits with judgmental leers were interspersed, eyes void-like and unseeing, but lips tightened into thin lines of self assurance.

America wasn't sure how much he really liked the world outside his room. His first impressions were slightly overwhelming, his mind unused to the stimulation after being locked away like an old toy in a chest. He'd emerged to find a scene he'd not expected.

In the back of his thoughts, during forced bouts of idleness in bed, America had painted what he thought Russia's house looked like. He conjured up images on the canvas of consciousness in direct connection to the emotions he had experienced during his escape attempt.

The walls were dark, the paint peeling from them, trying to escape the house. Floorboards groaned and creaked underfoot, their slats snapping, biting, pinching skin, drawing pinpricks of blood. The rooms held nothing but bizarre devices, each one a clear implement of creative torture, freshly stained from use.

And yet, in reality, the house was almost _noble_, breathing the certain life that inanimate structures of rich history did. America ran his fingers along the wall, half to steady himself, half out of craving for tactile sensation. His hand hitched on a wooden frame not far from his own door.

"Your room?" America guessed confidently.

"Correct," Russia answered, not at all in the impressed tone America would liked to have heard.

The temptation to go inside tickled the palate of America's mouth, attempting to goad him into asking permission for entrance. His lips stayed firmly sealed, though he anxiously rapped his knuckles on the door, as if expecting someone to pull it open.

"I take it you'd like to go in?"

America didn't answer Russia right away, instead scratching at his neck self-consciously as his lips formed unspoken words. It wasn't like he really _wanted_ to check out Russia's room, he thought it'd be akin to running straight into a bear's cave, or tiger's den.

But it wasn't as if the rest of the house was any more appealing. Russia's room would be just that, a room. It would have clear boundaries, unlike the house. America didn't know where he could and couldn't go within the halls and the rest of the manor, one wrong step and he could earn himself another bruise or five.

"Best to play it safe," he mouthed inaudibly before speaking up. "Sure, give me the grand tour of your room."

"It'd be my pleasure," Russia purred, arm hooking around America's shoulder before he opened the door and guided him through.

America's lips pursed at the gesture, quickly shrugging Russia off. He'd never been fond of people trying to loop casual arms around his shoulders. The gesture always struck him as possessive, bordering on _greedy_. Only those he trusted were allowed to do so.

America strode into the room like he owned the place, head held high and chest puffed to intimidate. His stance faltered momentarily when he heard Russia close them in, but he quickly recovered when he didn't hear the lock click into place.

Russia's arm blanketed America's shoulders again, fingers squeezing warningly for a split second. "I hope you'll find everything to your liking," he said in a saccharine sweet tone that rubbed America in all the wrong ways.

"It's fantastic," America forced the words between gritted teeth, eyes running over the room.

Every little bit of furniture was neatly placed, giving the room a rather sterile feel. America was quite sure that if he ran a finger over anything, it would come away completely dust-free. A large sleigh bed lay nudged up against a wide bay window, bleary light pooling onto the sheets.

Something about the room gave America chills. He imagined there might be serpents hiding in the shelves of the bookcase at the far end of the room, waiting to strike at any hand that drew near. A few of the shadows being cast looked odd and out of place, bending and stretching far more than America thought shadows regularly did.

A checkered tabletop was tucked away in one of the corners, near what looked like a large case, coated in dark leather. Probably where Russia kept the bodies.

"I want to play checkers," America announced, pointing to the table.

"That is a chess board."

"Same thing."

"The two games are very different, America, chess being vastly superior─"

"Checkers," America spoke over Russia, overriding his opinions.

Before Russia could try to explain why the delicate intricacies of chess were preferable to the boorish maneuvers of checkers, America made the short journey to the table, carefully avoiding any weird shadows that might try to suck his feet in.

He cleared a sheaf of papers from the table by tossing them on a nearby dresser before taking a seat. He sat there, straight backed and expectant, like a child waiting for a meal to be placed before him. Russia sat across from him, head lowered, wisps of white bangs skimming his forehead.

"I do not have the pieces for checkers," he admitted quietly, not catching America's eye. He said it like one might pass on news of a fatal disease, loss of a loved one, or a forgotten anniversary.

"You're lying," America said boldly, hands slamming on the table, subtly inching towards Russia. "_Everyone_ has a set of checkers. It's a universal law, something you stow away for when you're hanging out with a buddy and have nothing to do."

Russia visibly perked up at the mentions of being buddies. "I may have them lying around. _But_," he purred in a gravelly voice, tipping back in his chair, "it will take awhile to find them."

"That's fine," America murmured in an uninterested drawl, "waiting is more fun than chess."

The legs of Russia's chair dropped to the floor in a rush, the noise cracking the lazy atmosphere. America grinned broadly as he studied Russia's face, his jaw too tightly clenched to be considered calm. Russia set his elbows on the table and leaned in. America instinctively pulled his hands away.

Russia forced a ghastly smile, more a haunted grimace than a sign of happiness. America recoiled further, head bumping against the wall behind him, a flicker of regret nibbled at his mind for choosing a spot so small and confined, while Russia sat with his back bared to the rest of the room.

"Well, _maybe_ we could play chess," America offered, hands clasped in his lap.

"Oh no, my little dove, I would not want to push you into games you'd rather not play." Russia leaned in further, almost pulling himself across the table.

"Can we compromise?"

"I am open to it," Russia pulled away, if only a sliver.

"Why don't we play chess and checkers? Like, together? We can call it _chessers_."

Russia's smile vanished, replaced by a questioning frown. "How would it work?"

"We could stack the chess pieces on top of the checkers."

"And the rules?"

America shifted in his seat, eyes locked on the ceiling. Beyond stacking pieces, America hadn't given chessers much thought. He shrugged and flashed a quick, unsure smile. "Make it up as we go along?"

Twenty minutes later, with a fair amount of glares and mumbled arguments, they had the board set up. Russia insisted that America go first since he was, after all, his guest. America grudgingly agreed after waiting a moment to see if Russia was joking.

"This is going to be exactly like chess, isn't it?" America slid a pawn forward. "Pawn to F3," he added belatedly, sure he had counted right, and that the lingo might impress Russia.

Russia's brow quirked, mirroring the edge of his lips. "Pawn to E5."

America nibbled on his lower lip. Maybe he should take the opportunity to move two spaces while he could. Russia seemed to have no qualms with it. "Pawn to G4."

Russia calmly placed his index finger upon his queen. It glided easily in a perfect diagonal line across the board, coming to a rest once it reached the end of the available path. "Queen to D4," Russia said casually. "And of course, checkmate."

"Checkmate? You listen here, bud─" America's tongue twisted awkwardly with shock as he looked at the possible trajectories of the queen. She was perfectly poised to strike down his king in the next turn, with no way for America to retaliate. "Ah," he breathed uneasily, squinting in irritation at the board.

Russia laughed loudly, joyously. America pulled his gaze away from the board to shoot him a dirty look. Russia locked eyes with him as he chuckled, his nose wrinkling with childish glee, a glimpse of teeth showing as his lips pulled back.

America caught sight of a snaggletooth. It jutted out strangely, slightly away from the rest of Russia's teeth, peeking from around one of his canines. America concentrated on it as he waited for Russia's laughter to face, working over the curves of the jagged tooth with his eyes.

"Such a rudimentary mistake." Russia shook his head, hair whipping around him. "Let us try again."

Russia and America moved their pieces back into their starting positions, Russia smiling confidently as America tried to make his king explode with his mind. At least that way he'd get some entertainment out of the game.

Their next match lasted only ten moves. America's pieces littered Russia's side of the board. He wasn't even sure how he lost, considering he had taken several of Russia's pawns and a bishop. Russia must have used some kind of Red magic, or sleight of hand.

The third match became an extreme test of patience. America played haphazardly, pawns skittering about, knights hopping in inexplicable formations, rooks rocketing to and fro with no clear objective. Russia countered with slow, precise movements, thoughtful hums vibrating in his throat with every turn.

America grumbled and slumped in his chair when his queen was snatched from the board, a checker left as a kind of grave marker, a testament to the queen's last stand. Russia had refused to acknowledge the presence of checker pieces after the first game. America hastily flicked a rook forward a few spaces, only for Russia to capture it with his knight.

America was tempted to call off the game, preferably in a way that required him to flip the table over in a fit of rage, but he didn't have the energy. Russia's unfalteringly happy face wasn't helping either.

It wasn't happy in a sick way that spoke of delighting in the pain of others, though America thought his losing streak _could_ be a factor in Russia's joy. But at least Russia was sunny, calm, relaxed. America preferred him in such a mood, it allowed him to let his own guard down and stop worrying so much about what Russia might have planned for the future.

America returned Russia's smile, rather weak from the aching need for sleep that was settling in his bones. He lolled his head against the back of the chair, hair ruffling as it rubbed against the wall. His back still throbbed painfully, but like Russia had said, it could have been a lot worse.

"Your move, America."

America jerked his head up, eyes wide with blank confusion. "No it's not, I made a move like two seconds ago, remember?"

"It was hardly 'two seconds ago', and I have already taken my turn."

America hid a yawn behind his hand as he looked the board over. Russia pointed to a bishop that had moved, and America nodded in agreement; it hadn't been nestled up against his knight before. "Good to know you're not waiting for the seasons to change anymore before making a move."

A kind light glowed behind Russia's eyes. "I took no shorter than usual, but I believe you may have drifted off while waiting."

"As if I could fall asleep in the same room as you." America wrinkled his nose, not in the kind and jovial way Russia had been doing earlier, but in nervous agitation.

"You've done it before," Russia said casually.

"Eight billion years ago doesn't count." America figured Russia must be talking about a time long past.

Russia gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Are you trying to buy time to make a move? I can assure you that you may take as much as you need."

"Are you having the same conversation?" America shoved a pawn into the open before rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was too tired to play nice.

"I believe so, yes." Russia absentmindedly played with the frayed edges of his scarf, threads twirling around his fingers as he surveyed the board.

America settled back into his chair, eyelids fluttering closed. At least Russia's room was warmer than his own, a certain sleepy coziness permeating the room. The soft, barely detectable scent of old world spices tickling at his nose and settling on the back of his tongue. As long as he didn't open his eyes, or think about Russia sitting across from him, he was rather comfortable.

An arm slid beneath America's legs, another slipping behind his head. His eyes flew open, alarmed and wild. The arms pulled away, and America blinked with disbelief as he turned to see Russia at his side. He looked across the board to the empty chair, as if expecting to see him back in his seat.

"You fell asleep," Russia said coolly.

"Not even!" protested America. "Closing my eyes isn't the same as clocking out."

"So it is a habit of yours to ignore people when they try to speak to you, then?"

"It's not the norm, but I make the occasional exception," America answered wryly.

Russia leaned his shoulder against the wall, trapping America where he sat. "I think someone is grumpy. Did you not sleep well last night?" His voice rang with patronizing concern.

"As a matter of fact, bub, I didn't. I've got nothing but scratchy, paper-thin blankets at night, and the walls are just as useful. Your room feels like a tropical paradise in comparison, I swear."

Russia nodded the appropriate intervals as America spoke, eyes following America's hands as they gesticulated out of irritation and emphasized his gripes. "To be honest, that room wasn't in the original floor plan, and it was built in a hurry."

"Needed a place to keep your prisoners?"

"That is the general gist of it, yes."

America's lips pulled into a taut, pensive line. Russia's face was smooth and impassive, divulging no hint of humor in his admission. His arms folded across his chest as he looked back towards the door, the only noise in the room the subtle rustling of clothes and weary breathing.

"As enjoyable as it is to play against you," Russia began after a few minutes of quiet thought, "I have a good deal of work to do. Would you like to return to your room so that you may fall back to sleep?"

America stirred and stretched his arms far above his head, fingers grasping at the air. The idea of going back to sleep was appealing, the only thing outweighing it being America's desire to stay out of his room. Being in Russia's room was a certain freedom in and of itself, and America didn't want to give it up too quickly.

Once he was back in his own room, America had no way of knowing when, or if, he'd be let out again. Being confined such a small space every day for endless hours ate away at his will to fight. He could sense his fire burning low, dwindling to a weak ember, becoming more and more docile, resigned to his situation.

Progressing to Russia's room had given him the slightest bit of kindling, stoking his mind back into crafting ploys and plans. America needed to hold on to his freedom, however minimal it was.

"Going back to sleep sounds all kind of nice, but, uh," America's words stuttered, clinging fiercely to his tongue. "What if I, like, camped out in here? I mean, if I slept in here, you could keep an eye on me, right?" he reasoned.

"Right." Suspicion lined Russia's agreement, but he took a step back, giving America room to stand.

America hopped to his feet and flashed a thankful smile that fell piteously short of his eyes. He scurried to the bed, performing subtle hops over the sketchy shadows in the room before throwing himself on the mattress, a soft _whumph_ sounding as he hit the covers.

Russia largely ignored America's antics, instead retreating to a writing desk. He set to poring over papers, showing no interest in the chorus of odd noises America made as he punched pillows and wrangled sheets.

America situated himself in the middle of the bed, the hugeness of it all creating the sensation of being lost in a sea of blankets and plump pillows. He kept a liberal amount of space between his feet and the edge of the mattress, the eternal fear that the monster under the bed would grab them forever present in his head.

With his arms pulled under his chest, America lay on his stomach, head turned towards Russia's back. A small mirror hung on the wall in front of Russia's desk, providing America with discreet means of spying. He watched the looking glass in silence, studying the reflection of Russia's face.

Russia's vivid violet eyes swept over the documents with a composed concentration, immune to distraction. Spidery lashes dipped and fluttered every few seconds, almost playfully. His eyes glinted with every new tidbit of interesting information they fell upon.

Purple eyes were kind of cool, America decided. Hair and eye colors out of the norm were, in America's mind, somewhat villainous to begin with, but America would let it slide this time.

The mix of purple eyes, impossibly pale hair, and a funky snaggletooth was a good combination. It was unique, memorable, nearly fetching. America wondered how Russia acquired such a shade for his eyes to begin with. Was he born with them? Or maybe he got them from a botched experiment─

"Stop that," Russia said abruptly.

"Stop what?" sputtered America, instantly on the defensive, hair prickling on the back of his neck.

"Staring."

America flushed with embarrassment, cheeks warming, a petulant frown curving his lips. He hadn't seen Russia look back at him, hadn't noticed even the slightest hint that he was aware of being surveyed. _Probably has eyes in the back of his no good commie head_, America thought.

"I don't have eyes in the back of my head, but it'd be nice."

America scowled weakly. "You can read minds now?"

Russia exhaled a low, heavy sigh through his mouth, never looking up from the papers before him. "You said it aloud, America. Go to sleep, you're tired."

"Oh, right. I'm gettin' on it, don't worry." America pulled his arms from beneath him, folding them into a pillow, a cradle for his head. "About that no good commie head stuff..."

"America─"

"I didn't mean it," America muttered into his arms, breath skimming along his skin. "It's a pretty good head, even if it is a commie head."

"_America_." Russia turned in his seat, arm hooking over the back of the chair. His eyes were dull, bored, almost distant. "Sleep."

"Fine, fine," America relented, succumbing to a childish pout. "Good night─ er, morning. You know what I mean."

Russia went back to his work, and America shut his tired eyes. His mind drifted, warm and contented, loping along the line of wakefulness and sleep. Fingers twitched of their own accord, lightly clutching the woven blankets beneath him, his body resting comfortably atop them.

He slipped in and out of sleep, soaking up the drowsy haze that smothered his thoughts. The smooth scratch of pen nib against paper, trailing precise lines of language, served as a lullaby to America, gently pushing his mind, toppling it over into the realm of dreamless sleep.

Wild bleating snapped America awake. His body instinctively tried to lurch up, face smacking the bed and rebounding instead of sitting up. He lay in a dazed, useless heap for a second before remembering he was on his stomach. Limbs scrambling, he rolled onto his side, using an elbow to prop himself up while his other hand went to fix crooked glasses.

Russia was still at his desk, though the sun was on his back now. With a composure that showed no regard for America's thrashing about, he reached over and pulled the phone from its cradle, silencing its shrill cry.

Russia spoke into the receiver, saying some kind of greeting. Whatever it was, it was in Russian. For all America knew, he could be ordering a firing squad for a litter of kittens, but at least it didn't sound too evil.

America sat up fully, legs crossing as he rubbed sleepily at his eyes. Russia let out a soft noise of surprise as a small voice quickly spoke on the other line. Russia's posture softened, his strong back and square shoulders relaxing, rounding into something more casual.

"Yes, this is he. You'll have to excuse me for answering in my mother tongue, it is simply─" The voice cut him off, babbling quickly, the noise like buzzing mosquitos to America's ears. "No, no. This is not at all a bad time for me." Russia waggled his pen between index and middle finger as he waited to continue. "Now, what is it you'd like to talk about, England?"

_A/N:_

_NER NER CLIFFHANGER._

_You can in fact beat someone at chess in only three moves. Also, I cannot be the only person who would love to see a match up of Russia Vs. Lord Loss._

_As always, anyone that points out grammatical errors and typos will be my best friend forever_. _Whether you like it or not._


	7. Chapter 7

America's body went rigid at the mention of England's name. His eyes locked on the phone in Russia's hand. He could grab it, snatch it away in an instant, utter a cry for help in the amount of time Russia would take to wrench it from his hands.

But it might also be a test, a mere dud or red herring. Russia could be trying to measure America's will to escape by providing him with an opportunity to act. And yet that was almost too elaborate, even for a mind as complicated as Russia's.

America slowly uncrossed his legs, slinging them over the bed in a swift, stealthy movement. His lips pressed into a barely visible line, feet pressing soundlessly to the floor as his back took on a predatory arch, preparing to pounce.

"Ah, I see. This is no problem at all, I believe I have the documents you mailed me right here," Russia said, feigned concern brushing along his words. He pulled open a small desk drawer, hands rummaging loudly about for a moment. He pulled it back out, not with a handful of papers, but a gun.

He placed it on the table, the metal making a dull thunk as it settled. America's muscles seized for a moment before giving an involuntary shudder. He looked to the mirror, Russia's reflected face was somber, almost sorrowful, but above all, aware. America rocked backwards on his heels before sitting back on the bed. At least that proved it really was England on the other end of the line.

"Yes, I've heard he went missing. His brother called a few days after he'd last heard from him, saying that he appears to have run away. Something about his clothes being missing, and, eh, 'sensitive information', was gone as well. Do you think he might have taken a little break without telling anyone?"

America bristled at the smug tone of Russia's words. He'd thought all of this out, mapped every little detail in a web of lies, an answer ready for each question that was thrown his way. Or at least, all but one.

"He left his wallet behind?" The surprise in Russia's tone no longer carried the air of an actor.

Perking at the gaff, America shot Russia a smile using the mirror. Russia returned it, but the glint in his eye was mocking. A spark of hope alighting in him at the first chink in Russia's armor, America bounced on the bed a bit, eyes raking Russia's back before trailing to the gun.

It was just sitting there. Russia didn't have his hand on it, or really anywhere near it. America's fingers twitched excitedly as scenarios ran through his mind. It'd be so easy to grab the gun and turn it on Russia. Not that America had ever really shot anyone with a gun.

He wasn't much for physical violence, or any kind of violence at all. If he had to wield a gun, it was mostly for show, an act to intimidate. Every time he had been forced to handle one, he made sure to always shoot into the air, above the heads of anyone that could be hurt. There was a line that was crossed when one killed a man, and America had no intention of stepping over it.

America really didn't _need_ to shoot Russia to begin with though, did he? He could shoot the phone, as Russia himself had threatened to. Not that it would get him anywhere, the only accomplishment coming from the act an injured Russia, who would probably return the favor. Russia wouldn't even be able to call the ambulance and explain to them that there were hot shards of plastic in his eye.

America's gaze latched onto the phone cord, following the tightly wound coils, sliding to the number pad. He frowned. Something wasn't right about the phone, the colors and make jutting out in his mind. The phone from his memory was an ugly white, the one Russia was using was dark, the numbers faded from repeated use.

Brows furrowing, America allowed the memory of Russia threatening to shoot the phone flit back into his mind. Russia had claimed that he thought there was only one phone in the house, that being his excuse for not pumping it with lead, but there was no way the phone he was using now could have slipped his mind, he had to see it every day of his life.

America kicked the air a few times as he thought, the conversation unfolding before him nothing but a sea of prompt responses and long pauses. He wondered why Russia hadn't shot the phone to begin with. The first and only explanation that popped into America's head was that Russia simply didn't _want_ America to get hurt. Or he could be stingy about ammunition; that made considerably more sense.

Stitching together snips of conversation and memory, America couldn't recall ever hearing flat out that Russia had hurt anyone. It was an assumed thing. The way Lithuania cowered, how Latvia shook, Estonia's instinctive flinching, all of it pointed at abuse, but no one ever flat out acknowledged it.

Maybe Russia kept them in line with threats, both physical and verbal, not unlike how he had been bending and twisting America into a more cooperative being. Of course a few real punches and kicks were probably thrown in, but they were mere reactionary assaults, as Russia had demonstrated earlier.

America pushed his lower lip out in an irritated pout, shrugging off the idea that Russia was anything but inhuman. No one could live as long as he without have a few atrocities in their closet, even if they were way in the back, or particularly well hidden. America was sure if he cared to think about it long enough, he could pull up an occasion or two where Russia had boxed heads in.

The threads of the phone conversation brought America's attention back around.

"If he is hiding out, do you have any idea why he might do such a thing?" Russia's voice was thick with interest, curiosity, and sympathy. "If you ask me, I think he might be upset with, well, you know what has been happening lately, I am sure."

America's head tipped to the side, unsure of what Russia could be speaking of. Nothing had been particularly bad before he'd gotten mixed up with Russia. Sure, he'd been out of the loop since then, but he'd still know if anyone were to attack him, or if financial instability rocked the country.

"I know he considers himself to be open minded and fair, but with how tensions have been lately, the sudden change in the relations between my country and his own may have been a shock. Even as nations, it is irresponsible to think that America is immune to personal prejudices."

The buzzing of America's confused thoughts drowned out England's muted response. His feet worked of their own accord, planting themselves on the floor, forcing his body upright. He wasn't going to left in the dark regarding what was going on back home. Russia threw a glance over his shoulder in response, starting slightly as America took a step towards him.

Russia half-rose from his chair, knees bent and body hunched over the desk. "England, I cannot help but notice how much this distresses you. Perhaps we should cancel this month's meeting so that we may all regroup?" England seemed to agree with this thought, because Russia soon said his goodbyes and put down the phone with a toothy grin.

America went to punch the slimy smile off Russia's face the moment he turned, but his blow was sidestepped, the lack of follow through from his fist setting America off balance. He overstepped in an automatic attempt to regain his composure, but the movement only sent him further forward.

Russia's hand shot out, firmly gripping America's shoulders and steadying him. America readied himself for another punch, only to find his motivation shot down by Russia's sudden departure into conversation.

"I like phone calls," Russia said mildly, the suppressed quality saying that, in actuality, he loved phone calls.

America blinked, his arm lowering. "What?"

"Do you like phone calls, America? I'm sure you receive many─ _used_ to receive many, before you came to live with me." Russia spoke as though America had willingly chosen to shack up with him, as if he were only staying for a short visit.

Anger successfully diffused by the sheer absurdity of Russia's words, America's hands dropped awkwardly to his sides. "I guess they're okay. I mean, sometimes they're not all that great, but I like 'em well enough."

"Are you lonely without their calls now?"

America sniffed at the question. He wasn't _too _lonely. There were much more important things to worry about at the moment. Not that he wouldn't mind having someone other than Russia to talk to, if that was even what he and Russia did. They more or less fought a daily battle to exist in the same dimension of time and space. Or at least, that was how America viewed his days.

Russia on the other hand seemed to take America's antics in stride. His mood was one of perpetual calmness and tranquility, to the point where it was unsettling, if not a bit cold. Not in the far away chill that America would have liked it to be, but instead the icy seep of a winter night as it rolls into one's room and consumes any hint of warmth.

"You see," Russia interrupted America's thoughts. "I think you are lonely now. It was foolish to assume you would warm to me easily, but still, I did not think you would continue to fight me as fiercely as you have."

"What were you talking about on the phone with England? You said something about our countries getting along. We don't get along. That's like, _our thing_." America refused to have his thoughts rerouted by Russia's inane rambling again.

"I used to believe that having a lot of people around you meant you wouldn't be lonely," Russia continued on, blithe to America's questions. "But I have found a single person can make you happy. I have found that person, America. But he rejects me so, like I am nothing but a venomous spider he wishes to escape from."

"Don't talk about me like that, I'm right here." America kicked at the floor with his foot, scuffing at it as best he could. The only thing worse than the nonsensical utterances that came from Russia's mouth was when he spoke of America in a thinly-veiled fashion.

Russia accepted America's request for a more direct form of communication with enthusiasm. Cool hands cupped America's cheeks, forcing him to look Russia squarely in the eye. America gave a few half-hearted shoves, but knew there was no way to duck out of the hold.

"I may be the spider," Russia said, fingertips impressing upon America's warm flesh, "but I will take care not to bite you." He leaned in close, his image becoming blurry and unfocused at such a short distance to America's eyes. All he could see was the brilliant purple of Russia's eyes.

America gave a reactionary shove, more forceful than before, but with the extra weight Russia had on him, and the lack of space to maneuver, America could only fall back on the bed. At least Russia's frosty paws were off him.

America awkwardly sidled off the bed, doing his best to keep himself a few feet from Russia's grasp at all times. He cast his gaze about the room looking for a place to reside where Russia couldn't quite follow, but found nothing. Each seat had a matching companion, no matter how strange and out of place it was.

His only option was to sit at the writing desk, and America hardly thought Russia would let such a thing pass without respite. America took to moving about the room with an artless gait. He drifted from the bed to chair to bookcase without stopping, creating a small circuit that Russia did not follow.

"Look, you can be a spider, or a phoenix, or even a damned _phoenix spider_. But tell me what you were talking about with England." America slid a book from a shelf, leafed through a few pages, and slammed it shut with a loud snap.

Russia was unfazed by the dramatic gesture. "I would prefer not to. You seem rather upset, America. Perhaps you should lie back down?"

America pushed the book back into its place, the case rattling with the force of the movement. "Do you know what day it is? Because _I_ don't," America spouted at no one in particular, his voice faltering slightly, a crack piercing his words. "Hell, I don't even know what time it is anymore." His shoulders sagged in desperate exasperation.

"America, you are getting too worked up. Remember your promise, there will be no more crying." Smooth and hypnotic, the words were without a trace of emotional inflection as Russia spoke them. "Is this all too much for you right now? Let me escort you back to your room, you've had a long day."

America shook his head and backed away, putting as much space between him and the door as was possible. "No," he said simply.

Russia strode towards America, holding his hands open and palm up, his approach slow and unthreatening. "You have not eaten yet today America, it must be making you nervous."

America couldn't deny that he was feeling a bit on the jittery side and then some, but it wasn't as if he'd never gone a day without eating before. He'd take whatever sliver of freedom he'd get over eating any day, even if it was somewhat maddening.

Russia's fingers gently wound around America's forearms, giving him a light tug forward. America resisted, digging his heels into the carpet as if he were a child being dragged from the candy aisle by his mother. Russia seemed hesitant to force America to come with him, instead continuing to tug and coax.

Russia gave up quicker than America had expected him to, his hands sliding from America's arms, moving to scratch curiously against his chin before once again continuing, his forefinger tapping against America's forehead. "What are you thinking in there?" he asked plainly.

"In my head? None of your business."

"It is when you act like this."

"Act like 'this'? I'm acting like I've been kidnapped and shut off from everyone and everything I care about!" America nearly spit the words, anger keeping his tears at bay.

Russia mulled America's outburst over for a moment, his expression announcing that he'd like to point out there was nothing all that bad about America's situation, but the look never passed through his lips. "Okay, how about this? We will make a little deal, like we did with the chess and the checkers."

"I don't want to play chessers anymore."

"No more games tonight, I agree. But if you have some dinner, I will─" Russia's lips fell, twisted into a reluctant frown. "─show you a little bit of what has been happening."

America's eyes were shadowed with doubt. "No you won't. You're going to shove me back in my room and never let me out again."

"That is not how we have dinner in my country."

"But it's what you're going to do to me."

Russia sputtered slightly, a rare show of confusion on his behalf. "Who is telling you these things? Listen to me, you are not little Rapunzel, locked high up in a tower you will never be able to come down from without throwing your hair to the ground."

"Sure feels like it." America stared off into the darkening corners of the room, the walls painted a low red as the sun dwindled.

"My home is yours to enjoy, America, but first you must prove to me you are not a flighty little finch."

More bird talk. America rolled his eyes at the mention. He was tired of being referred to as an animal, unthinking, acting on instinct alone. Instinct was the only way to survive in unfamiliar situations, and his was as unfamiliar as it got.

"Can you tell me what's going on before dinner?" America asked, knowing full well the answer, but needing the topic to divert from birds.

"No, dinner first, then the showing." Russia turned and went to the door. America gave an unseen and stilted nod before dogging Russia's footsteps.

"Can I just relax while you make dinner?"

"Of course, I was not expecting you to help. I'd rather you stay away from any sharp utensils." Russia stopped almost immediately at America's room. "I will knock when it is time to eat."

America made a noise in his throat that signified no particular emotion as he ducked into his room, his eyes never meeting Russia's. Once he heard retreating footsteps, he tugged up the sleeve of his shirt, looking to the palm of his left hand.

A long, ugly scar was all that was left of the self-inflicted, though not purposefully, knife wound. America had been treating it himself using a first aid kit he'd found under the sink of the bathroom. He'd carefully removed the stitches as the wound turned from a repulsive, open maw to nothing but a nuisance.

Now it sat pompously upon his hand, shining a strange, raw pink in the light of his room. It itched continuously in a way that could not be sated, a daily reminder of what would happen if he tried to run again, how utterly incapable he was of even protecting himself. America watched it quietly, as if waiting for it to speak, to impart some kind of knowledge of how to escape. It divulged no such wisdom.

America sighed and shook his head. He didn't know how long it would take Russia to whip up dinner, but he wasn't about to waste time staring at a scar. Letting all forms of thought slip from his mind, America went to his dresser and pulled out a clean pair of pajamas. There was no point in putting on anything else, after dinner, and finding out what Russia had to say (which would probably be precious little), the only thing left to do would be to sleep some more. That's all he ever did, sleep and stare at the ceiling.

He quickly changed and freshened up, dragging too-long nails through his hair as a comb, not minding that the grime that coated the mirror was too thick to let him make out anything beyond the basic shape of his reflection.

After America decided he was of the acceptable appearance to dine with company, he had nothing left to do but think, worries and fears flooding his mind as easily as they had left. He hardly stopped to consider each one, instead grouping them into large sections, none of which he could really deal with.

His feet paced along the floor of his room, working him in repetitive figure eights. He wound around the floor again and again, hands clasped behind his back, his chin nearly sunken to his chest. Back and forth he went, like an animal, caged and mad with no outlet for its energy.

A sliver of light caught his eye, momentarily halting his continuous treading. He looked up, eyes following the patch from whence it came. It streamed from a crack in the door, Russia's face barely visible as he inexpertly spied on America, knowing it was only a matter of time before he was spotted.

America locked his gaze with Russia, confrontational and irritated. Russia made no move to interrupt, his role that of the worried scientist, watching sadly as his rat failed to thrive in its environment.

"For someone who says not to stare, you sure do a lot of it yourself," America snorted coldly.

"Yes, I suppose I do." Russia stepped away from the door, an unspoken request for America to follow him hanging in the air.

With an exasperated huff, America joined Russia in the hallway, ready to scarf down whatever was given to him in order to get some kind of idea as to what was happening. He was guided straight back to Russia's room, a single waving gesture told him to sit at the checkered table once again.

A plain tablecloth lay over it, oversized and slightly ratty, the edges spotted with moth-eaten holes. America took the seat he had used before and regarded the bowl before him with hungry eyes. Even if his spot left him cornered, at least he'd have a space to consider his own, small as it might be.

Russia took up his usual position across from America. Neither spoke as they ate, the only noise in the room the subtle slurp of hot soup and the howl of the wind as it fruitlessly battered the windows. America tried not to think about how cold his room was bound to be once he returned.

Instead he focused on England. Not how close he had been to speaking to him, but the fact that England was looking for him. He thought about the welcome he'd receive once he was out of this hellhole. There'd probably have a party, one with streamers and balloons. Everyone would realise what a vital part he was to their lives, his goofy smile and wild ideas, both things necessary at their meetings.

Except there wasn't going to be a meeting this month, apparently. Russia had already sorted that out nicely, warping England's grief into an excuse to postpone them. America wondered what would happen once the meetings did start up again.

Would Russia take America with him? It hardly seemed feasible. There was no way America would sit idly by in a hotel room while Russia happily chatted away about pollution or cold things or whatever the heck concerned Russians.

Unable to be trusted alone in a hotel, America decided he'd probably be left at the house. He took a fragment of comfort knowing that Russia couldn't do that without constantly worrying that America would find a way out of the house while he was gone.

It was kind of, sort of, not really possible that Russia might leave someone to watch over America, but did he trust anyone enough? Knowing he had nothing to lose from asking, America blurted, "So does anyone know I'm hangin' around here?"

Russia lazily licked at his spoon, the flat of his tongue sweeping up any spare drops of soup. "Do you think I am stupid, America?" he asked, his tone listless.

"No, just crazy."

Russia smiled kindly, like a teacher thinking of how to correct a mistaken student. "Only the poor are mad. I, myself, have old money. America, do you know what old money is?" He allowed no time for America to answer. "No, you are too young still to understand such a concept. But you see, old money combined with my─" Russia moved his hand about in the air, as if he was stitching together the word he wanted with his fingers. "─_behaviors_, I am merely seen as eccentric."

"We have eccentric people too, y'know," America said conversationally. Anything Russia could do, he could do better. "They have houses with bumper cars on their roofs and stuff. Fun people."

"It is always like this with you, isn't it? With the one-upping and the running of the mouth."

"Hey man,_ I_ didn't bring eccentric folks up to begin with." America smiled inwardly; he'd caught Russia changing the subject and put a quick stop to it. But America wouldn't let their conversation merely drop, he'd offer Russia a chance to keep speaking, but only regarding topics America wanted to dwell on. "So, no one's caught on yet?"

"No." Russia snapped up the bait. "Everyone is eager for information. Whenever they talk to me I tell them I think you've gone on holiday. To them, it makes sense. What other options do they have to consider? It is either you ran away from your responsibilities, or you have been injured to the point where you cannot contact them. They will go with the happier story."

"Not even your sisters know?"

Russia looked at him as if he were the crazy one. "Have you ever had a lady friend? You do not know how they can be. All they do is talk and speak and gossip in their little voices, if only to hear themselves speak."

"That's kind of harsh, we're talking about your sisters here."

"You do not talk about my sisters," Russia said arrogantly, looking down his nose at America. "They are mine, not yours."

America chewed inelegantly on his spoon, the bowl before him empty. For what little regard Russia showed for his sisters, he sure was protective. His eyes lit up as when he noticed Russia had finished his bowl as well. He'd nearly forgotten about their deal after being caught up in their bizarre, yet not entirely unenjoyable, conversation. America would be lying if he were to pretend it wasn't intriguing to see what made Russia tick.

"Hey, guess what time it is? Time to tell me what's going on."

"Ah, yes. That─" Russia turned his head away, a disinterested dullness reflecting in his blank expression. "I never said I would tell you anything."

"Buddy," America began politely, betraying the blossom of anger in his chest. "You said you would tell me what was up once we ate. I did it, I ate your little bowl of spiced water."

"I said I would show you, America. Telling is too easy, too simple."

A violent tremor manifested in America's hands as they clenched into tightly balled fists. "I bet I could beat you half to death and break out of this popsicle stand."

Russia's gaze floated to the ceiling, lips forming a curious frown. "That is true, but I would not be deserving of such a treatment."

"How'd you come up with that?"

"I have not hit you during your stay, have I?"

In a reflexive motion, America leaned against his chair to think. The back bit into his bruise, reminding him immediately of the events that had transpired earlier that morning. His lips moved clumsily as he attempted to articulate the incident, and how Russia had indeed given him a good thwack, but it nearly seemed like more trouble than was worth mentioning. Russia's reasoning had made sense when he looked back on it.

"I guess not," America huffed with childish defeat, his fists unfurling. "But how are you going to show me?"

"Using the news."

America's heart dropped to his feet, fluttered a bit, and expired. The idea that things between his country and Russia had changed so much it was worth reporting caused an overwhelming swoon to sweep over his mind. He didn't want things to change, as much as he liked expansion and progress, like any creature of the world, change unsettled him.

Sweat wetting the palms of his hands, America watched in silence as Russia approached the wardrobe that lay directly across from the bed. A dull flare of amusement went off in America's stomach as he realised it was really a discreet way of hiding a large television. Russia grabbed a remote from a shelf within the case, motioning for America to join him with his free hand.

With feet that struggled to disobey, America took his place at Russia's side. He held his neck stiff and straight, eyes focused on the blackened screen before him. His jaw clenched in anticipation as his feet rooted to the floor.

Russia gave a light press of the remote and the darkness flickered on, the image snapping and buzzing to static for a moment before gathering its bearings. Pale light bathed America's already bloodless face, and with one final, deep breath, he readied himself for the truth.

A/N:

As always, I will love anyone and everyone who points out typos until the end of time and then some. If I had anything of value, I'd even stick you in my will. Also, for anyone wondering if America will ever get to go outside he _does_. Just not until chapter 9.


	8. Chapter 8

America stared with a growing, and very confused, interest at the television. He had girded his loins for some kind of earth-shattering news report, with screaming people throwing themselves out of buildings and Russian troops marching down Wall Street.

What he got was a bright and flashy video trying to sell him clothes. He glanced sideways at Russia to see if he had missed something. "This is the big news? Half price sale at J.C. Ruski's? Oh, look, scarves are on sale too, you might want to swing by and pick up a few."

Russia let out a small, uncomfortable cough. The tips of his ears were dusted with pink. "This is not the news, America, this is a commercial. Are you so desensitized to them you cannot understand the difference?"

America narrowed his eyes as his lower lip jutted out of its own accord. That was almost a decent joke. He flailed for a comeback; any would do. "Bet this isn't as dramatic as you hoped it'd be."

Russia hushed him, his breath a low hiss. "You have so little patience, it is coming on now."

America looked back to the screen. A young woman with an offensively pink jacket and an eerily large smile was speaking to the camera. Her voice was high and grating, as if it were being physically torn from her mouth as her eyes sped back and forth along the lines of the teleprompter. She was a news anchor alright.

Her words were meaningless to America, not a single one registering meaning in his mind. A box popped up next to her head, first displaying a Russian flag that was soon joined by an American one. America stiffened, back going rigid as he strained to make sense of what he was seeing.

The flags and news anchor disappeared, replaced by a large, official looking building with pale pillars supporting a sloped roof. Two podiums sat together at the head of a case of stone steps, tall men with dark, fitted suits standing side by side. Recognition sparked in America's eyes.

"That's what's-his-bucket!" he exclaimed, pointing to the man on the right. America knew him as a politician, or an ambassador, or a something, but in a world where America met such people every day, the man's name had only barely made its way into his memory. It danced on the tip of his tongue, refusing to leave its perch as America tried to speak it.

"Don't they look lovely together?" Russia breathed a content and satisfied sigh.

America frowned and pulled his attention away from remembering names, instead focusing on the appearance of the two men. They faced each other with shaky smiles that could be washed away as easily as the waves could claim a castle of sand. Their hands met in a handshake, though both struggled subtly for control.

"What are they doing?" America asked, straining to gleam any kind of information he could from their movements.

"Cementing our new friendship."

America turned to Russia, slack-jawed and unbelieving. "We don't have any kind of a friendship, buddy."

"If you say so, buddy," Russia mimicked.

A wave of disdain painted America's insides. "I'm not your buddy, bud─" He caught himself, choking on word. "_Dude_."

"No, no, do not stop using this word, 'buddy'." Russia hummed happily, savoring the moniker.

America wrinkled his nose in disgust. It sounded so wrong when Russia said it, like he was speaking a language that his vocal chords could not quite grasp, an alien tongue he was never meant to emit. America grumbled and turned back to the television, but the scene had been wiped, replaced with what looked to be a story about cats. Or tricycles. Possibly cats with tricycles.

"That's it?" America scoffed. "People shake hands and we're suddenly friends?" He knew it ran much deeper than that, but refused to openly admit it.

He couldn't even begin to fathom what wheels Russia had set in motion. It wasn't possible to simply kidnap a nation, shove them in a room for awhile, and force relations to improve. If things were that easy, nations would go missing as often as storybook princesses.

"That was only a brief mention, they will be coming back to it later in the program."

"How long does this puppy last?"

"Awhile."

"Rough estimate, cough it up."

"Two hours."

America stared blankly at Russia. There was no way he was going to bail out on finding out more about his situation, but the idea of staying for so long in Russia's room was beginning to pick at him. He quietly argued the benefits of staying versus what could come of leaving.

The longer he stayed, the more information he'd have, the more enlightened he'd be. He could find out what day it was, what time it was. He'd been so focused on the news itself he hadn't caught it, and without that bit of knowledge he couldn't bring himself to bail out.

"Do you mind if I stick around to catch the follow up?"

There was no response. America looked to Russia only to find him missing. He scanned the room quickly, but found no other occupants, yet the door that joined Russia's room to the bathroom America so often heard was closed. America shrugged to himself, switching from foot to foot to relieve the soreness that festered from standing still too long.

After a few minutes of hopping about uneasily, a soft and steady whistle met America's ears, the tune familiar, and rather catchy. He recognized it immediately as Russia's national anthem, which he had to admit was always a song he was fond of. Figuring bathroom whistling was a sign that Russia was taking his sweet time, America found no reason to wait to ask permission to stay.

He plopped down on the bed and focused on the television. The news had returned, a small clock in the bottom hand corner revealing that it was a quarter past eleven. Soon the combined image of the Russian and American flags popped up again, but to America's chagrin it was soon chased away by a weather report.

America winced as he observed the temperatures. He'd suffered a lot of harsh winters, but even these numbers shocked him. Tomorrow's weather didn't look half as bad as tonight's, a smiling sunny face floating beneath the header.

The day after tomorrow looked much worse. The sun was replaced by a globular white cloud with a volatile look in its eyes. Its mouth opened to reveal a deep abyss interrupted only by the steady stream of snow that streamed forth. Great swirls of wind battered its sides and flew about.

The mattress dipped, startling America. "A storm is coming," Russia told him matter-of-factly.

"Is that a metaphor, or an actual reference to the news?" America shot Russia a glance. He was near the headboard of the bed, his lower body becoming a hidden mass as it slid beneath the covers. His coat had been exchanged for a simple tee shirt with no insignia or design. The scarf, however, remained.

"The news." Russia yawned, too wide and drawn out to be genuine. "We will have to go shopping tomorrow in case we get snowed in."

"Wait, 'we' are going to go shopping? Like, together?"

"That is the plan." Russia gave him a conspiratorial wink, as though they were allies working towards the same goal.

"I'm going to keep watching it," America announced. It came out as a shy, faltering plea, instead of the fierce bark he would have preferred. He ignored the wink and what Russia had given him. Surely what he had seen was a trick of the shadows, the words only mocking.

"I will not stop you." Russia rolled onto his side, settling his head upon a thick white pillow. "Turn it off when you've finished."

America nodded and continued to watch. The stories slipped by his glazed eyes without invoking much reaction. Footage of a farmer turned to a video of a parking lot, the roofs of the cars gleaming like the scales of a winding serpent. The commercials returned, attempting to sell America all manners of things he had no desire to own.

The cold of the outside world began to fill the room as America waited. It wasn't as bad as his own room, but nippy enough that his pajamas were unable to ward off the chill, leaving his body to tremble as it tried to keep warm. He looked over his shoulder to check on Russia as he took to hugging himself.

Russia was still curled on his side, one hand hidden beneath his pillow while the other was wound about his scarf. America slowly scooted closer to the headboard, squinting at Russia's face. It was lax, lacking the composure of those who were awake. America waved a hand in front of Russia's face and waited for a reaction, but received none.

"I'm going to go ring up the police now," America informed Russia, just for good measure. Russia seemed to have no problem with that, which stole away America's fun.

Deciding Russia was legitimately conked out, America peeled away the covers and gingerly crawled beneath them, careful not to rouse his bedmate. Russia stirred slightly and, America thought, edged closer. It was too hard to tell for sure in the dark, though.

America pulled the blankets up to his chin and wiggled his toes, a yawn overtaking his lips as he squirmed about to make himself comfortable. He soon settled on his back, ankles crossed together as he watched the screen of the television. They'd finally come full circle and returned to what America really cared about.

The same story was shown again, with the same footage and, worst of all, played for the same length of time, the only added bit being a small spot of conversation between the two men. Their words were in English, but America's relief was almost instantaneously demolished as a Russian voice began to speak over them, translating their exchange.

He fought to read their lips. Basic, everyday words were easy to pick out, but he made no headway on their actual conversation, other than noting that the word 'and' showed up way too often, and that 'eggplants with soy sauce' was most definitely not what the Russian man was saying, no matter how similar it looked.

When the images had faded, replaced again by the frightening looking weather with its smiling suns and snow-vomiting clouds, America decided it was time to grab a pillow, his hands beginning to grope about with only the fluorescent glow of the television to guide his way.

After a moment, America's fingers brushed against the light fabric of a pillowcase. He gave it a pull, but it stayed firmly put. Next he gave it a few good tugs, his results negligible at best. With a grunt, America gave one final yank, managing to pull the pillow a few inches.

A pleased smile skipping across his lips, America mentally applauded himself for the progress. Hope renewed, he searched for the source of why the pillow had been so stubborn to move. The answer made itself obvious.

The sheets ruffled as Russia stirred, his hands sleepily swiping at the pillow, fingernails raking at it until it was back under his head. America stiffened, his breath hitching in his chest. He waited, eyes wide and white-rimmed. Russia settled back into a deep, unmoving sleep.

America let out the breath he had bottled up. Adrenaline flared through his body, setting his fingers shaking. His eyelids slipped shut as he worked to calm himself down. He chastised his shot nerves, reprimanding them for giving him such a fright. In return, they chided his sense for not looking more closely to begin with. His mind settled the argument by charging them both with equal fault.

America forced himself to concentrate back on the television, though his interest waned constantly, straying back several times to Russia's snoozing form. He looked like a hibernating bear, one that would not appreciate being awakened. America wondered how he'd react if he found America still in his room, in his bed no less.

_Probably wouldn't do a thing,_ America thought. Russia hadn't demonstrated any of the bizarre mental disturbances he was known for since America had arrived. At worst, he would send America to his own cold room and his own cold bed. America nestled deeper into the covers at the thought, glad to have a moment to enjoy the warmth that blanketed his body. He wondered if, using a few well placed smiles and a honied tone, he could talk Russia into moving him to new room.

Small scenarios regarding how to attain a new room flit through his head, the news becoming nothing but background noise. He closed his eyes, mind moving from thoughts of warm rooms back to what he had seen. Those two men had only been shaking hands, it didn't equate to any kind of friendship, as Russia was regarding it.

At best, it was only a small step towards not so rocky times. America was sure that no matter how much paperwork Russia had stolen, he didn't have the power to change things to such an extent that their countries would be closer.

America, as a person, as _Alfred_, did have a certain amount of power regarding the actions of his country. Not much, but enough that if he was unshakably against something, it wouldn't happen. Any true headway revolving around Russia would have to go through him first, receive his go ahead, or at least a nod of recognition.

Most of the time America preferred to stay out of the boardroom, and any form of important document was instead mailed to him. Now that he was unable to so much as waltz on out to his mailbox, the post would soon start to pile up. Eventually the mailman would have to notice, eventually the handful of handlers that kept track of America would realise he was no longer reporting to them in any way, shape, or form.

America clutched onto the knowledge that soon the people of his government would notice his disappearance with a certain ambivalence. Generally, humans were not privy to a nation's whereabouts beyond a basic address and phone number. Their personal lives were not to be interfered with, and any kind of sickness was kept from the 'regular folk' as much as was possible.

It wasn't that nations attempted to hide any sign of weakness for the vain sake of keeping up appearances, but instead to set the minds of their people at ease. Something as simple as a dry cough or sneeze could set alarm bells off. America shuddered to think of how people would react when they couldn't find him. Doomsday theories would run rampant in the ranks.

He silently hoped that England, or maybe Canada, would be able to interfere somehow. They could steal his mail, and, if it wasn't already happening, Canada might be staying in his house, keeping watch and impersonating his brother when it was necessary.

America smiled tiredly, content in believing his family would pull through for him. He snuggled under the covers, scooting towards the warm epicenter of the bed. His arms flopped across a large bundle of sheets that had ridden up between him and Russia. It radiated a secure, unending heat, its form solid and unchanging as it coaxed America closer and closer until he was nestled up beside it.

The television continued to play on, but from what America could hear it was another set of bright, flashy commercials he cared not for. With eyelids that weighed too heavily to hold up, America assured himself that after a brief catnap he'd hop right back to watching and find out everything he could.

By the time the news broke in again, this time with footage of crowded rooms of committees with people arguing, then deciding, and finally agreeing, America was fast asleep, absorbed in dreams with lips he could not read and words he could not understand.

America's thoughts slowly buzzed back into consciousness, chugging a slow and steady path towards the clarity of mind that came with wakefulness. His eyelids fluttered as he curled in on himself, making small and contented noises as he wriggled beneath the covers, searching for the most comfortable spot.

He found a warm depression in the bed a little to his left, the same spot where the covers had rumpled into a cushy mound for him to curl up next to. The hill had decomposed into nothing but an unclaimed pillow, which America instantly stole, as well as the cozy indentation on the bed.

The pillow itself still carried residual heat from its previous user, but America was hardly awake enough to realise such things. He merely enjoyed the dreamy daze he was wallowing in, succumbing to the alternating states of his mind, tuning in and out to the patter of water against floor.

America blinked lazily, becoming more attuned to the noise. He picked his head up from the bed, supporting himself on his elbows. His eyes scoped out the alarm clock which informed him in glowing red numbers that the morning was moving on without him, already having reached a quarter past ten. Ruffled that he had slept so late, America's limbs spasmed and kicked the covers off.

The chill of the room pounced upon him. "Oh, oh _nooo_," he bleated weakly, sounding very much like an old lady and immediately yanked the sheets over his head, providing himself a small niche in which to huddle within. The blissful warmth of the bed was infinitely preferable to the rest of the cold room.

Belatedly, America noticed his fussing about was fetching no reaction from Russia. Not that it ever seemed to get one. His fingers gripped at the pillow beneath his head, the only one on the bed. He listened to the water as it continued to pound, the slow and embarrassing realization that Russia was no longer in the bed consuming his thoughts.

He peeped out from the covers and glanced around. Everything was still neatly packed into its place, largely unchanged but for the removal of the gun. The phone sat patiently on the writing desk, waiting to be called to service.

The desire to use it was fleeting, a blink of thought in the eye of time. It was too cold to move, and dial, and hold respectable conversation. And, knowing his own luck, America was sure Russia would jump out of the shower before he'd gotten so much as one ring off. He'd wait patiently instead, prove that he could sit and be still and not do reckless things.

He didn't have to wait long. The taps soon squeaked as they were turned off, the heavy stream of water turning to a few orphaned drips. The door swung open on creaking hinges, steam billowing out as if the entrance were the maw of a great dragon. Russia didn't emerge from the bathroom as much as he seemed to fade into the room. It was really very dramatic for so early in the morning, America thought.

"Did you sleep well, America?" Russia questioned, his footsteps silent as he approached the bed. The inquisition startled America, his body admitting to being awake as his mind protested.

"I'm still snoozin'," he answered, eyes closed.

"You are like a school child." A large drop of water splashed against America's forehead, his face flinched instinctively as he looked up at Russia's hovering form. His hair was plastered to his skull, darkened by water that slid down his pale cheeks and dripped from his jaw, continuing to land on America's face.

"I like sleeping, that's all." America rolled over and pulled the covers over his head. He wasn't ready to get up yet.

"Mother, only five more minutes, I promise. I will be the best boy in the world if only you would give them to me," Russia mused softly, more to himself than America.

"Okay, okay, I'm getting up." America made a grand show of being roused. His arms appeared first, sliding above the sheets, failing wildly, stupidly, halfway intending to smack Russia. When he found himself without the satisfying thud of connection, he withdrew his arms, curling them slowly inward, snail-like in appearance.

America lay incredibly still for several moments, the only visible movement the rise and fall of the covers as his chest rose and fell in steady succession. His left hand, the one closest to Russia, he surmised, very slowly moved towards the bright glow of the room, his fingertips pausing before they could be exposed.

With the snapping lash of an eel's strike, America's arm shot out, clipping Russia in a lightning quick and eerily fluid movement before retreating, or at least, mostly. His fingers still peeked from the head of the sheets, opening and closing, biting the air like a live creature, weaving occasionally in search of prey.

"Do you put on these productions every morning?"

"For the right price."

"Oh," Russia breathed the word out in a sigh, sounding unsure of how to take the comment. "So this is reward for taking you out with me today?"

America froze for a moment, eyes wide, fixed on nothingness in the darkness beneath the duvet. "You really meant that?" The tail of his words quivered with poorly concealed hope.

"Yes."

"Well, then." America sprung upright, the covers falling away. "Sorry about ol' eel arm there, he happens sometimes."

Russia was supporting himself with one hand flat on the bed, the other pinching at the bridge of his nose. America could not decipher if his choked expression was from repressed laughter, or if he just really wanted to punch America. The two expressions, America had learned at a very young age, ran very close together.

"Please, do not rush yourself." Russia's hand fell from his face, a small, almost strained smile on his lips.

"Right-o," America agreed, rubbing his arms to fend off the cold of the room. "Did you leave any hot water left?"

"I would like to think I am a courteous host."

"I will take that as a yes, then." America smiled in an awkwardly toothless way, inwardly replaying his too-friendly interaction with Russia. _I'll tamp down on that no good nonsense_, he resolved as he turned to leave. Russia reached an arm out, as if to grab America, but stopped himself.

Instead he raised and puffed his body to its full height, and his eyes shone with fierce, almost forced hospitality. "Please, use my own bathroom. It is much cleaner than the one you have, I am sure." Despite the request the words portrayed, Russia's demeanor twisted them into more of a demand than anything.

America gave a single, wary nod. "Sure, I can do that."

Tension rippled across Russia's shoulders before slipping from there, his expression settling into one of great ease. America gave him an odd, half-formed thumbs up before trotting into the bathroom. He surveyed his surroundings carefully, as if expecting to find some kind of surprise waiting for him.

The bathroom was rather nice, even in comparison to what he had at home. A large white tub took up the way furthest from him, an iron shower head gaping over its porcelain depths. The floor was tiled and cool beneath his feet, the grouted lines creating squares that were pleasing in their uniformity.

America mopped at the wide mirror, sweeping away a thin film of fog that obscured his own reflection. The same person he more or less expected greeted him. His hair perhaps a bit scruffier than he was used to, the purple hollows beneath his eyes more vivid than he would have liked, but he was still America more than anything else.

He grinned at himself, big and goofy. Today was going to be a good day; America knew it, like how he knew he had ten toes and ten fingers. Of course he could always ruin his day, as he could alter the number of fingers and toes he had, but he hardly wanted to. To be outside again, to feel the tickle of the sun's rays and the brisk nip of the wind was more than he could have asked for from Russia, and, America suspected, he'd be in public, primed to draw attention to himself, ideally from someone who also knew English.

The shuffle of footsteps and the slam of a door snatched America's attentions away from how he'd explain his situation to the first English-speaking person he met. He snuck a look back into the room to find it empty. The hairs on his neck prickled. Russia had left him.

America scolded himself as he followed suit, his mind working as his legs traced Russia's path. How could he have believed that Russia, the same man that had confined him, would allow him back out into the world, allow him to mingle and interact with those that could rescue him?

America rounded the corner with an angry spring in his step; if he had to stay trapped inside, Russia would too. The naked soles of America's feet slapped against linoleum as he entered the kitchen, echoing in the room.

Russia looked up from the counter he was standing at when he heard the noise. He was fully dressed, donning his usual coat, sporting the same military badge it always did. His hair was no longer dripping, but instead struggling to regain its usual pallor. His polished boots emitted a leathery rustle as his weight shifted.

"I knew it," America hissed, closing their distance in several hasty strides. His muscles twitched with a thirst for violence, wanting to wind their way into the folds of Russia's scarf and strangle him with it. Yet he refrained, if only from the instinctual fear of retaliation.

"Knew what, America?" Russia went back to looking at the counter, a carton of eggs displayed before him. America's anger fizzled into confusion and a sheepish embarrassment. People making quick getaways didn't stare at eggs.

"Uh, knew you were running away─" His words fumbled across his tongue, lurching back and forth in a tangled dance. "─to the kitchen!"

"What else would I be doing?" Russia asked coolly, picking several eggs from the carton and checking them for cracks.

"Nothing else, nothing at all," America said airily, possessing the loud and theatric air of one trying to hide their silly notions beneath a surface of normality.

"Are you having trouble turning the shower on?"

"Yeah," America answered, bordering on the snappish side. "It's all backwards and messed up." Regardless of the fact he had not even tried to turn the shower on, America knew to make it sound like a serious incident that needed immediate attention.

With nothing more than a simple nod, Russia lead the way back to the bathroom. America followed in his wake, transfixed on watching the sway and flutter of his scarf as it drifted obediently behind him. He nearly bumped into it once Russia stopped, just inside the frame of the bathroom, flattening against the wall to let America pass him. America stayed put.

"Now what is it you are having trouble with, America?"

"Um, well," America blustered, wondering if he should start a count of how many times Russia could say his name. It wasn't like America ever took the effort to refer to him as anything beyond 'buddy', and that was only out of habit. "It wouldn't work for me."

"It does that sometimes, usually when it meets new people." Russia coughed in a way that America fully suspected was really a rough laugh, causing a boyish shame to rise to America's cheeks, though he remained silent. As long as Russia wasn't going to slink off, he could say and do any weird thing he wanted to and America wouldn't bat an eyelash. Unless that got him closer to the front door.

America folded his arms, his head lowering in thought. Would Russia be susceptible to his charms? England sure was, and America didn't suspect that anyone could be more of a hard ass than England. But what if his charms worked too well, and Russia expected even more from America? An uninhibited shudder ran though America's body as he subconsciously edged away. The last thing he wanted was funny business with Russia.

He did miss the daily smiles, hugs, and occasional chaste kisses he was used to receiving, but there was no way America would stoop to Russia's level to get them in return. Not that is wasn't tempting. America was starving for attention and affection, and with how often Russia sat a smidge too close, how he always leaned in a tad too far, America was pretty sure he was just as hungry, if not more, for physical touch.

But Russia was a stupid lonely oaf, and America didn't make nice with stupid oafs, even if they really weren't all that dumb. America tapped his foot absentmindedly as he scratched off 'stupid' on his mental list of adjectives that described Russia. Completely and utterly insane fit him much better. He did have a touch of intelligence, if America was going to be honest with himself. Enough so that he could trick America into the shower while he sped off. Or made breakfast.

A pulling at his hand and the sudden contact of tepid water shook America from his thoughts. Russia was holding his arm beneath the shower head along with America's, his sleeves rolled up to avoid getting his clothes splashed. "Is this warm enough for you?" he asked, head bowed slightly to get a better look at America's face.

"I─ yeah, this is good." America blinked owlishly, still halfway stuck in his mind.

Russia released his grip, his hand moving instead to cup the side of America's face, fingers delicately stroking. "Now, why did you come fetch me from the kitchen?"

"I already told you, I couldn't get the shower working."

"No," Russia said flatly, though his touch remained fond. "You would not come to me over something so simple."

America's mind ran a few excuses by in his head, none of them adequate enough to explain why he had dragged Russia back in here. He didn't think he could get away with not answering at all. Russia seemed the type to wait around until he heard what he wanted.

Fearing Russia would once again laugh at his absurd notions, America made to buy himself some sympathy, if only by wiping out his own dignity first. Ignoring the undulating revulsion that coiled in his stomach, America cocked his head to the side, loosely pinning Russia's hand between his cheek and shoulder.

"You aren't planning on lockin' me up in here while you go to the store today, are you?" he asked, forcing his voice into a timid croak while biting back the acidic bile that rose in his throat at the act.

Russia's expression melted into friendly, disarmed relief. "America, my little America. I promise to stand by patiently until you are ready. Never has it crossed my mind to leave while you are preoccupied." He crooned the words in such a loving manner that it caused America's heart to very briefly stammer and want to believe in his own little act, if only for a single second.

"Are you positive?" America backed up, shrugging off Russia's touch. "I mean, you could just be saying that." He sidled closer to the shower, fingers grazing the mouth of the tub.

"I promise, I will not leave you unattended in my home. Not even for a minute," Russia assured. "In fact, if it puts you at ease, I shall stay in here with you until you are finished."

"No, no that's really not necessary." America was back on unsteady ground, unsure of whether or not Russia was yanking his chain. "Why don't you stay in your room or something instead? Make a bunch of noise so I can hear you, too."

"I suppose I can do that." Russia nodded astutely.

"Great, mosey on along now." America made a shooing motion with his hands, Russia politely obeyed them.

With the bathroom clear of any Russian influence, America quickly shimmied from his pajamas and cast them aside. The chilled air of the bathroom sent him straight under the warm jet of water in the shower, his body dancing and bending to cover every inch of skin at once.

His hands worked to scrub away the horror of his actions, rubbing and scraping his flesh into a raw, red canvas. He'd used a little bit of flirting to get his way before, but only on the rarest occasions. Never with a madman like Russia. In a failing attempt to keep his self-respect intact, America argued that it was necessary to behave in ways he'd rather not, as long as it got him closer to freedom. He'd already assured himself of that earlier, but after putting his theory in to play, it was nowhere near as easy to reason away the guilt he knew would haunt him.

America shook his head of his inner turmoil and went back to bathing. Wasn't Russia supposed to be kicking up a racket outside to show he was planning to stick around? He sure was doing an awful job of it. America went to washing his hair while he waited for the sound to start, giving the bottle a customary sniff before deciding that the light vanilla scent was an acceptable thing for his scalp to smell like.

In the middle of his rinsing and repeating, America's ears perked at the sound of singing. He waited for the crackle of the gramophone, the static of a radio station, but could perceive no such thing. The notes were perfectly clear, as though the singer was merely in the next room over. An electric tremor skittered up and down America's spine as he realised it was Russia.

His voice was deep and operatic, a smooth and luxurious baritone that swept into the shower and mingled with the water, bathing America's skin in rich, musical notes. The trill of Russia's perfect vibrato caused America's own chest to swell as he breathed in the sound.

For all the dislike America managed to muster for Russia, he had to admit the man had a nice voice. The captivating quality of it wasn't even relegated to singing. During simple board room meeting talks, rowdy arguments, or whispered threats, it had a rough, yet all together pleasing quality. Its lilting cadence that jumped as Russia's emotions spun reminded him of a dog's coat. Coarse and protective to the touch, but sweet with a downy quality beneath the surface.

The singing stopped the instant he shut the taps off. America deflated slightly, the combinational kiss of cold air and the lack of song causing a shiver to cling to his shoulders. He stared blankly at the clothes he had earlier cast away, their layers forming a sad heap. He hadn't brought anything fresh in with him.

America's expression settled into a thin-lipped look of irritation as he snagged a towel from the rack. He quickly blotted the worst of the water off him as he shook his head in a doggish manner, droplets spraying everywhere. He'd have to dash to his room with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

Chest held high with masculine pride, America pulled the door open and marched into the room. Russia looked over his shoulder from his position on the bed, his form silhouetted, backlit by the glow of the television. America's hands clasped at the shoddy knot he had tied in the towel as he strut towards the door.

His back was stiff, muscles tight with discomfort and only too aware of how much pale flesh he was exposing. He was always at odds with his body in front of others, and had passed a point where he knew not whether it was a personal problem or something that affected him from his own country's constant attention to the human figure. Either way, he was too damn old to care anymore, and one of these days he'd stop. Just as soon as he figured out how.

"I thought you would be tanner," Russia remarked as America passed him.

America reached for the knob before freezing, his shoulders hunching with uneasy tension. "That's kind of a jerk thing to say, especially coming from someone who looks like a ghost." He turned and wagged an admonishing finger at Russia. "And why are you even looking at me?"

Russia's shoulders swelled and dipped in a shrug. "Is a bird with silvered plumage not as beautiful as one with gold?"

"The gold one is better."

"Why?"

America hesitated, arranging and rearranging his towel. Most people he'd met seemed to prefer gold to silver, tan to pale, America really wasn't sure why, but he figured it an aesthetic law. "Gold looks nicer than silver," he answered, running a hand over his fair complexion.

"Maybe for you, but I like them both the same. Gold has a lovely gleam, but silver reflects a certain shine that cannot be matched."

A red flush nipped at America's skin, tiny, heated pricks crawling up his neck and glowing against his cheeks, but his personal disappointment with himself for not keeping up a healthy bronzed tone all year round faded slightly. If Russia didn't give a hoot, America wouldn't either. Though America did wonder how Russia knew it had been bothering him.

Russia had gone back to watching the television, his posture strong and, judging by the way he was massaging his knuckles against his thighs, rather excited. America padded back over, his curiosity piqued. A red banner crept along the bottom, rattling off headlines in Russian.

The camera was trained on a podium not unlike the one America had previously seen, though this time it had no occupant. Microphones were littered about it, each a fat, misshapen glob vying with its neighbor for space. The occasional flash of the bulb lit up the strange scene.

Finding nothing involving about the situation, America occupied himself with a few stray threads that were sprouting from his towel. Maybe things would pick up in a second. He wound a strand around his forefinger, watching with waning interest as the tip of it turned into a swollen, purple segment.

He glanced back to the screen as he unwrapped the string and set to work on his middle finger. He gave the podium another once-over with his eyes, his gaze washing over the microphones, sliding down the angular wooden sides, lingering over the seal.

An eagle was emblazoned on it, wings splayed wide. One talon clutched at a bundle of arrows, the other grasped an olive branch. Held between his beak, a banner read "E pluribus unum". America's mind grappled with the words as his heartbeat rose, pumping icy blood into his veins.

Why was the President's seal being broadcast on the Russian news? Didn't they have better things to show than an empty podium? America's knees locked together as the room stirred to life, the flash of cameras turned the scene into a blaze of constantly flickering lights. The brightness flooded America's mind as the President took up his post.

"Russia." America's knees loosened, turning to a dripping jelly as he mind reeled. "Russia, what's he doing on the news?"

Russia startled, having concluded that America had already left. He sprang from the bed, instantly moving to block the television from sight, fingers fiddling behind him to change the channel, to lower the sound, to chase the image away in any way he could.

"It is nothing, America," Russia assured him, his voice husky and urgent, a momentary crack and snap sounded and the television's glow evaporated.

"It's not 'nothing'." America clutched at the sheets with his hands, needing something to hold and tether himself to. "I want to know why _my_ President is on _your_ news. And was that some breaking stuff? It sure looked like it to me."

"It is not important." Russia stepped closer to America, tried to lightly tug him up from the bed. "Why are you still not dressed? We have places to go, my little bird." His hold strengthened as America made no effort to get up.

"I want to watch that," America told Russia in a very smooth, very calm voice. The bright blue of his eyes dampened, hardened into something that could not be reasoned with.

"No," Russia said firmly, fingers bruising America's flesh with their grip. He forcibly pulled America from the bed, hauled him, along with the sheets he clung to, to his own room and shoved him on the bed. America stared at him, though his eyes shone with a remoteness that said he was still in the other room.

"Why can't I watch TV with you?" America sat up, his body loose and disassembled. His feet kicked weakly at the edge of the bed. "Friends watch TV together, don't they?"

"America," Russia's voice was heavy, bubbling with anger. "Do not do this to me." He paced several steps away before veering back. His fists clenched and unclenched as the tendons in his jaw strained.

America kept himself disconnected from the situation, kept himself disconnected from the fear that yearned to flood his body when he saw Russia's fist clench again, only to raise it slightly, as if to strike America down. He flinched in an instant, instinct forcing his body to react. And all at once, Russia dropped to his knees.

The solemn blankness etched on America's face lightened as his mind decided to rejoin him. Russia was in front of America, hands reaching out, grabbing for him. "Look at me, look at what you do to me." Russia shook his head before leaning forward, his forehead resting on the edge of America's knee. "I do everything in my power to keep you warm, fed, and safe. What do you do in return? You throw it back in my face and upset me."

"I just said I wanted to watch TV with you," America argued weakly. He didn't want to see Russia on his knees, relying on him for strength. It was like seeing a parent cry. Russia was supposed to know what to do, _always_. He wasn't supposed to break down like this, not when he was in control.

"My little bird, always pecking away at me," Russia murmured, lifting his head to look up at America. His eyes were huge and round, pleading and sad. America swooned with pity at the sight.

"Hey, c'mon buddy. There's no need to get so worked up. I get it, you don't want me watching the news anymore." America patted the bed next to him. Russia hauled himself up next to him and slung an arm over his shoulders, pulling them together, their heads lightly pressed against one another's.

"Do you know what you have, America?" Russia's free hand went to America's chest, giving it a few hearty thumps. "You have a good heart."

America gave a bashful nod of thanks, his heart beating back against Russia's touch.

"But it is also so soft," Russia continued, a wistful breath intertwining with his words. "It cannot handle too much all at once. That is why you cannot watch the news with me."

America shifted slightly, leaning further against Russia. He was surprisingly warm. America had always expected him to emanate a certain iciness in conjunction with the fierce winters of his land, but he felt the same as any other body, giving off a comfortable bit of warmth that was particularly pleasing against America's bare skin.

"I don't think my heart's all that bad," America said, more to keep Russia with him than anything. He'd gone so long without such delicate and comforting touch his body craved it more than anything. More than any kind of information or freedom, he wanted tender affection.

"I never said having a soft heart was bad. Soft hearts are kind and loving, they hold an endless forgiveness. But they are quick to cry and become overwhelmed easily. Too much at once and they will break. You don't want that to happen, do you?"

"Well, no, not really."

"And that is why I must protect you! You must trust that if anything bad were to happen, I would tell you. I do not want you to become concerned with minor inconveniences and trivialities. If anything important happens, you will be the first to know, I promise."

America listened carefully to Russia's speech. He was feeling a tad on the overwhelmed side as of late. Maybe Russia really did know what was best, he was older and more experienced in the ways of the world after all. Yes, America decided, he'd leave everything to Russia for now.

"Right, well, I think I should probably get dressed then." America shrugged Russia's arm off. "You go watch the news and tell me if it's anything I should know about." It wasn't that America thought Russia really would tell him anything, but he really did want to put some proper clothes on to ward off the cold of the house.

"Of course," Russia agreed, a cheered lilt coating his words. "I am sure it is nothing. Oh, and─" he stammered slightly, "─I apologize for being so rough. It was not my intention to act as such." His head lowered for a moment in shame.

"No problem. It was my bad, I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that."

"That's right," Russia chided playfully before standing. "I hope you will not try again."

"Wouldn't dream of it, buddy." America smiled, his nerves at ease. He knew he wasn't the slightest bit at fault for Russia's erratic behavior, but he didn't mind fudging the truth to get Russia back into working order. He had grown to rather like, or at least tolerate, Russia's company when he was of sound mind.

When they had played chess together, for instance. Russia had been calm and composed, not at all the threatening and unapproachable figure he was used to, the one that watched him with frigid, unblinking eyes every time they came into contact. Eyes that seemed to be moving closer and closer...

Russia's lips met America's cheek, pressing softly. Not a kiss, but a touch. Like he had taken a hand and placed it on America's flesh, not pushing nor prying, not anything. A simple act of skin against skin. A finger traced along America's temple, tucking a stray lock of golden hair behind his ear. America straightened up and looked to Russia, almost as if expecting an explanation.

"Well, off I go now." Russia bent at the waist and wrapped his arms around America. Before he could break the embrace, America's arms slipped around him as well, returning the hug with his trademark gusto, hands patting down Russia's sides with a certain familiarity.

"See you soon, right?" America's arms dropped from Russia, moving behind him in support as he leaned back.

"Right," Russia echoed. He exited with a joyous skip to his step and a happy hum sounding in his throat. The metal _click_ of the door being locked sounded behind him.

America's hands shot back to his lap the instant the door locked. He stared at his palms, or really, the small book of crosswords puzzles he had nipped from Russia's pocket while 'hugging' him. He had seen it bobbing about, sneaking glances at him while Russia dragged America back to his room. And it wasn't as if it were wrong to steal it back, seeing how it was his to begin with.

He quickly flipped through the pages without really looking at them, glancing from the dresser to the book several times. There were a few clues he had been able to solve, that had been begging him to be written into their neat little places. He wanted to jot them down before they flew from his mind.

Grabbing a pencil from his nightstand, America set to work. He flipped to the page he suspected held the vacant boxes he was looking for, the graphite poised to strike with knowledge. Nothing but answers greeted him, crammed into the small spaces with hunched script.

He thumbed to the next page, sure he had made a simple mistake. Not a single blank square crawled into his vision. He tried the next, and the next, his heart and head throbbing with confusion. America rubbed at his eyes, pressing with such force that small white minnows swam across his vision when he opened them.

Every single page had been completed. The book in its entirety was finished, each puzzle already solved. He hadn't even been in possession of it since he'd been kidnapped, let alone _worked_ on it. But there it was, the book complete, each entry scrawled in using his own handwriting, no less.

A/N:

-I feel like, despite this being the longest chapter, the least happens.

-The crossword puzzle will be explained, I promise. It's not something weird I'm going to throw in and forget about.

-America should know blankets are generally not solid nor do they radiate warmth._ Just sayin'_.

-If you catch any typos and grammatical problems that skipped the grid, tell me and I will reward you with _raffle tickets_.

As an aside, the President 'back then' was George H. W. Bush. I was going to plainly state it in the fic at first, but it seemed like such an awkward thing to do, dragging in the name of an actual person in a fictional situation.


	9. Chapter 9

Unwilling to dwell on how he'd filled out puzzles without being in possession of them, America hid his book under the pillow. He'd worry about it later. Or maybe not at all. Russia had said he had a soft heart, maybe his mind was leaning on the soft side as well. It made a strange sort of sense to him, stay long enough in a madman's house, and you'd join his company.

America went to the dresser, allowing the towel to fall and pool at his feet. He pulled on the most basic of outfits without taking much time to mull over his options. A plain pair of jeans, warm woolen socks, then a second pair (just in case!), boxers that held no significant amount of luck to them, and a long sleeve shirt that he didn't recognize, but decided would keep him warm.

His toes scuffed and dragged along the floor as he floated about, polishing and re-polishing his glasses as he went. There had been no sweaters or coats in the drawers, and any kind of footwear was missing from the scene. Another precaution in Russia's scheme, America supposed. If he had ever managed to make it outside the house, his socked feet and flimsy tops wouldn't carry him far.

America hooked a finger around a curtain and peered behind it. No shoes. He dropped to his hands and knees and peered beneath the bed. A bottle of vodka that he had been nipping away at was stashed beneath it (though he had not been the one to originally place it there), but beyond that, it was spotless. If there had ever been boots beneath it, the monster that occupied the space had already stolen them.

He kicked around one of the few boxes that remained in the room, possibly the most boring box. A few dolls sewn together from potato and flour sacks inhabited it, but America was too old to play with such things. He knocked it around the room, lazily sliding it from one wall to the next.

It bumped against a door; America glanced up. It was the closet. Despite how much time he had spent in the room, he never had bothered to check out the closet. He never found it to be of any importance, concluding it to play house to spiders of all sorts, a city of carefully woven webs consuming its space.

Throwing caution to the wind, and knowing he could holler at the top of his lungs for Russia to kill any spiders that may spill out (because to survive in such weather, they would clearly be super-spiders), America wrestled the knob open.

The inside the closet smelled of sodden wood and moth balls, of rundown outfits and forgotten belongings. It was dark, reminiscent of a cave in how America could hear the rasp of his breath rebound from the back wall. The metal tail of a switch dangled before his face, making a tinny, ratcheting sound as he gave it a tug.

The bulb flickered and buzzed to life, motes of dust swimming around it like so many tiny gnats. There wasn't a spider in sight. America pressed on, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, making out the whole of the closet. It was a bit bigger than he'd expected, as if at one time it had been a room, an incredibly cramped one, but there was definitely space for a bed.

The racks that were bolted to either side were unevenly placed, the garments that hung from them sliding in a gradual slope. America leafed through them, their hangers scraping against the rods which held them, the clear plastic of their garment bags crinkling as they shifted.

All of them were military in appearance from what America could make out, and he had no drive to take them out of their translucent veils. He'd rather chop off his own foot than wear a Russian military coat, no matter how heavy the fabric or cozy their thick linings looked. Too determined to let his drive dwindle, America soldiered on.

He found an uncovered coat at the end of the line, unhooking the hanger and pulling it to him to judge its quality. It was a tad on the long side, but not unmanageable. Its coloring was deep beige, with dark strips skirting along the hem and making small appearances throughout the coat. America shook it out and ran his eyes over it several times in confusion, even going so far as to turn the light on and off to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

Without its usual war medal and complimentary scarf, its appearance was distinctly off. Yet, without doubt, America knew exactly what he was staring at. It was Russia's coat, or at least, a duplicate. The momentary desire to don it flared in America's stomach, like a child drawn to wearing the clothes of a parent. It would be an ill fit, draping over his shoulders like an old cloak, but the curiosity remained.

Would the coat give America the same menacing air that followed Russia as surely as the night followed the setting of the sun? No, it wouldn't. He rolled his eyes at the silliness of the thought. The little girl waddling about in her mother's heels with her face shadowed by the swooping brim of a Sunday hat would do nothing but reinforce her childish demeanor, not create the sudden visage of an adult.

Even in the face of reason, America still wanted to put it on. What would Russia's expression be when he recognized it? America fancied it'd be a bit cruel, yes, like wearing a dress to a party you knew the hostess would be wearing as well. But Russia and America weren't women absorbed in making sure their outfits didn't match.

There was something strangely freeing about wearing clothes that belonged to another. A kind of delicious secret that could be passed off in broad daylight, surrounded by the public. Even at his age, America still switched clothes with his brother on occasion. It was an act that children, siblings and close friends alike, did. It was a way to behave in ways one usually wouldn't; louder, bolder, more raucous. At the end of the day, one would switch back to their usual clothes, omitting themselves of the transgressions that had committed while in the outfit of another.

America hung the coat back on the rack. He couldn't really expect Russia to understand that logic, even if he acted strangely at times himself, because Russia never seemed to get what others were thinking. Somewhere along the years of his existence he had picked up an empathetic blankness. He couldn't understand what the people around him were going through, no matter how many times he had experienced the same situations and emotions himself. His mind refused to accept that others could feel at the same depth he could.

Or, America reasoned, his ignorance could be a vestige of his odd and childish nature. It wasn't that he lacked the ability to empathize, but merely refused to. A child gains nothing but sorrow and fear from learning and accepting the woe of another's life, and may opt instead to indulge themselves in a more carefree lifestyle by blotting out the distress of those around them. Fingering the fabric of the coat one last time, America exited the closet and flopped on the bed, content to twiddle his thumbs while mentally working Russia's psyche over.

Russia came back for America after a quarter of an hour, his demeanor having been boosted in the meantime. He was entirely composed of kind smiles and gentle words as he ushered America from his room, a guiding hand resting against the small of America's back, leading him to the kitchen and onward to a small nook in which two empty plates were set, silverware flanking their rounded sides.

America shifted with unruly energy as Russia moved about the kitchen, the balls of his feet bouncing against the floor as pans clattered and eggs cracked in the background. He made small designs in the light layer of dust on the table, his mind computing no thoughts in particular aside from the notion that a pleasant smell was slowly making its way towards him.

He propped his elbows on the table, his cheek resting against the palm of his hand as he watched Russia, or at least Russia's back. Russia worked at a refined, practiced pace, though his movements were delicate in the way that a scientist handles his chemicals with the utmost care, safely avoiding disaster.

Russia was soon shoveling a heap of fluffy yellow eggs onto America's plate and then his own, topping it off with two pieces of darkened toast. The two of them ate in relative silence, their knees glancing off each others with bashful knocks before settling down and merely touching with an easy comfort.

Russia openly watched America as he ate, eyes moving in steady lines, ticking back and forth like a metronome, reading America' face, his posture, his mannerisms, his everything. America tensed, wishing he had not the self-conscious mind of a man, but instead that of a zoo animal, able to carry on undisturbed by those who watched it. He twirled the tines of his fork into the small mountain of scrambled eggs before taking a small bite.

It wasn't that the eggs weren't good, by all accounts they were. Better than most eggs he'd had, not at all the sloppy mess he was usually served with, but Russia's incessant staring was slowly and ever so brutally killing off his appetite. But America forced himself to continue eating, urging himself on, the knowledge that soon he would be outside keeping him going.

When he was finished, America neatly set his fork upon his plate and slid it forwards before crossing his arms in front of himself. The quiet clink of utensil against plate played against America's ears as he waited, his head bobbing from side to side with boredom. Russia's foot subtly nudged at him from beneath the table.

America ignored it at first. He couldn't even begin to count the number of times he'd accidentally brushed against someone else's foot beneath a table. Their knees were already brushed against one another's after all, so it wasn't much of a stretch to think the momentary contact had been anything but mistake. Russia's foot brushed against him again, toes nibbling at his socks.

"What?" America asked.

Russia smiled, his lips threatening to part and reveal a grin. "Are you happy?"

"Sure, yeah, something like that." America gave him a light kick back.

"I am happy, too." Another bump under the table, followed by Russia's foot hooking around America's ankle and teasingly wrestling it closer.

America looked, really _looked_ at Russia. A hint of tooth was starting to show now, a certain giddy glimmer surfacing in the smooth violet planes of his eyes. His broad shoulders were held high, strong and carefree. America couldn't stop a returning smile from playing across his own face. Russia's joy was rather infectious, especially when it was being so blatantly trotted about.

"Good to know." America's back arched against his chair as he tried to stretch, his foot jostling under the table, but making no real attempt to escape Russia's playful capture. "Um, hey, I don't know if you realise this, but I don't have any shoes."

"Neither do I." A few crumbs tumbled down Russia's scarf as he finished off his toast.

"No, I mean, I don't have any shoes at all, like for wearing outside."

"Oh, that." Russia hardly seemed concerned as he stood, clearing the table and depositing the plates in the sink. He strode back and offered a hand to America, an offer that was cordially accepted. "If there is one thing you will never have to worry about with me, America, is that you will always be provided for."

"Hm, well, that's nice of you." America stared at his toes while they made a rippling wave of a motion. He really didn't know what to say in all honesty. When he thought of being kidnapped, he associated it with lots of yelling, violence, and a general lack of any and all privileges. He didn't associate it with nice breakfasts, warm beds, and having everything he could want as long as he gave up his freedom. Then again, he was getting a bit of that back as well.

"And I always thought you were so excitable." A gruff laugh rumbled in Russia's chest.

"I am excitable, just generally not when it comes to shoes. That's a lady thing."

"What about coats?"

America straightened up, his eyes mirroring his curiosity. "What kind of coats?"

"Not a bomber jacket."

America's interest dulled. "Coats are pretty cool, I guess."

"I think you will like this coat. When I first saw it, I was reminded of you." Russia gave America a quick pat on the head. "Wait by the door and I will bring you your things."

America gave a perfunctory nod before his brow set into a mask of fierce determination, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He was going to race Russia, even if the act was one-sided at best. He waited in silence as Russia left, going back to his room as far as America could tell.

When his footsteps became nothing but faint, muffled thuds, America took off. He slipped around corner after corner, hallway after endless hallway, assuring himself he could always backtrack, or at least he did that until he reached a point where that was no longer possible. He opened doors and scouted out rooms, many of them in the same half-unpacked fashion he had found his own in─_his_ room? When had it become that? America rubbed at his neck, it was just a room, one he slept in, but not of his own accord.

He continued to explore, finding rooms with colors themes and rich carpet with wallpaper to match. Some had no windows at all, some had too many, and in strange shapes. It was like a fun house that had tried to take itself seriously, whimsical and obtuse, but without the usual humorous air such buildings tended to have. America took mental notes of which rooms he wouldn't mind sleeping in.

Knowing all chances of winning his personal race were most likely lost, America slowed his pace, searching for familiar areas. How big could a single house be? It was more like an entire apartment complex, though he had failed to find any stairs. America had often wondered exactly what kind of living situation Russia had set up before the fall of the USSR, and had come to the conclusion that he stuffed everyone in this single house. That would be like Russia, always keeping a close eye on those he fancied.

"America?" Russia's voice echoed, crawling along the walls.

"I'll be there in a sec," America called back. "Took a little detour." He darted off in the direction of Russia's voice, padding along at a brisk pace. He hadn't made much progress before Russia spoke again.

"Are you lost?"

"No, sightseeing."

Russia emerged from one of the rooms America was about the pass. "If that is so, allow me to be your guide."

America eyed him with suspicion. "Looking for me, were you?"

"I could say the same about you." Russia slung an arm over America's shoulders, friendly and companionable. America gave him a quick pat on the back, not wanting to ruin his good mood.

Russia took him to the front door, where two pairs of boots cuddled up next to each other. Several coats were hung from a rack stationed near the boots, and Russia deftly picked one from the pack, flapping it twice to straighten out any obvious wrinkles before holding it out, positioned so that he would help America put it on.

America slipped his arms in and shrugged it onto his shoulders, fingers petting the fabric as his eyes swept up and down. It was a dark chocolate color, nearly the same shade as his own familiar jacket. Instead of weathered leather it was a sleek felt or suede of some sort, certainly pleasing to the touch. A dark collar of black fur ran around the collar of the coat. America stroked it absentmindedly.

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's fantastic. Thanks, buddy." America's fingers slid over the large, tortoiseshell buttons that lined the left side of the coat. "A real swell coat if I do say so myself." Having run out of things to do with his hands, America shoved them into his pockets. Thick wool awaited him, a pair of mittens waiting inside. "I see you've got this all planned out."

"I would not want your delicate little hands to be cold." Russia was already lacing up his boots. America joined him, the two of them hunched over as their laces snaked in and out of brass eyelets. Russia finished before America and took the opportunity to help his captive tie his shoes. When they both stood, Russia gave him a quick brush down with his hands and glossed over the rumpled bits of the coat.

"My hands are made out of tough stuff, they'll be fine." America took the gloves and tossed them on an end table. "Can we get a move on now?"

Russia pulled a key ring from his own pocket, jangling them in his hand, the metal keys glinting as they swung. "As you wish." He pulled the front door back, a cold gust of wind rushing into the house the moment it was open. America was out the door in less than a breath, skipping down the few steps that lead up to the door, ankle-deep snow crunching beneath his weight.

He checked over his shoulders as he stomped around, Russia was following him closely, taking no time to lock the door behind him. America put his feet together and hopped through the snow a bit, testing his legs, testing the ground. He raised a hand to his eyes to diffuse the glare of the sun and gazed at the house.

It was a single story, but still it managed to tower above him, the roof sloping into a steeple. It was painted with a faded pale color, if it could even be considered a proper color. America thought it looked more like what would take the place of color if it ever disappeared. Thick maroon drapes hung in every window, giving the house an empty, unwelcoming air.

America turned with a childish whirl of his arms to observe what lay outside his home. The snow engulfed everything, from the twisted, drying trees that spread into a thick forest of evergreens, to a rundown farm that was settled to the left of the house. It was a sitting safety hazard if America had ever seen one.

Shingles had peeled and fallen away from the roof, leaving bald patches that displayed naked rafters. The building in its entirety had the appearance of an old, tired animal. Its bulk swayed to one side in an obvious lean, tired from the many years it had stood straight and proud. What windows remained displayed terrible cracks, fractures spreading in sharp angular waves from their starting points. None of this seemed to deter Russia, though, who was steadily making for the front of it.

America traced Russia's footsteps until he reached him. Russia was working on opening the barn doors, both of them, as though he were planning to move something very large out it. America set to helping them, driving his shoulder against the splintered wood as his feet slipped in the snow, struggling for firm ground.

"Are we going to ride horses to town?" he joked.

"Yes, many horses." Russia replied.

America poked his head into the barn once the doors had been swung open. Shafts of light lanced through the holes in the roof, piercing the heavy shadows of the barn's interior, sweeping across a large black... _thing_. America took a few steps back in an attempt to broaden his perspective, to make sense of what lay within.

Two round reflective eyes stared back, a large metal grill grinning in his direction. America blinked and cocked his head to the side. A car? Who kept cars in _barns_? Couldn't Russia park his car in a proper garage? America shook his head wearily and stood aside when he heard the closing slam of the car's door followed by the loud rumble of the engine. He inwardly bet that it would be a fogey old clunker that belonged in a museum. He was wrong.

Instead, a huge lug of an automobile rolled out, its bulky mass barely fitting through the doors. With its huge frame and faded green hues, it was distinctly military. America decided it was a love child between a tank and a hard-top jeep, if that made any sense. Which, it really didn't, but the damn car-truck-tank-whatever the hell it was didn't make sense either, so it was all rather fitting.

Russia slowly pulled out, looking as casual as a man driving the most mundane of cars. The window was rolled down on his side, his forearm resting halfway out of the cab of the car, lifting only to crook momentarily in a beckoning motion. America scurried around the passenger side and hauled himself up into the seat.

The inside of the behemoth was nothing to write home about. Everything seemed to be well maintained, but none of it really impressed America aside from the vastness of the cab. Buckling his seatbelt, America set his sights straight ahead, focused on leaving the dreadful house he had been forced to live in for so long, too long. Russia gave the engine an invigorating rev and the beast began to trundle through the snow.

"Aren't you going to close up your, er, 'garage'?"

Russia laughed and sped up, the car swerved a bit in time with his chuckling. "There is nothing to steal in there besides farming equipment, and there is no one to steal from me to begin with."

"Hm." America fidgeted with his buckle, and then the strap, nervously tugging on it. "You live pretty far from town, don't you?"

"Yes."

"How far we talkin'?"

"You will see."

And that was their end of their conversation for some time. America settled back in his seat and watched the road, or really, watched _for _a road. He couldn't find anything resembling one, or even a hint of tire tracks. Russia in the meantime turned the radio on.

The ridiculous length of the antenna on the truck supplied, surprisingly, reception. Most stations came in clear, with a scant few being lost to the pop and buzz of static. Russia would stop at a classical station, humming with a great fervor, only to switch to talk stations once the classical music went to commercials.

He talked to the radio, seeming to agree with it at times with a few encouraging words, and other times showing his opposition to their topics and opinions with low, growling snippets of speech. America had no idea what he could be saying, but he listened anyway.

He listened to the even tone of Russia's voice, how it occasionally cooed gently, or tutted in a motherly fashion. America had always found the Russian language to be rather pleasant, with its flattened sounds and rolled letters. And the alphabet as well, it reminded him of snowflakes for reasons he could not quite place himself.

"What are you thinking about?"

America shifted, his mind searching for a new topic, one that wasn't Russian. Nothing surfaced, so he went with that. "Not thinkin' about anything, really. Snowflakes, I guess." At least he was being partially honest.

The wheels of the truck spun, momentarily stuck in a fresh drift. Russia floored it, sending them bouncing along on their way. "Do you want to know what I'm thinking about?"

_No, no I don't_. "Sure, why not."

"You, and how long you are going to stay with me."

America's head lolled to the side. "Mind letting me in on how long that's going to be?"

"Well, how long would you like to stay?" It sounded like a genuine question, a true curiosity.

"I'm pretty much ready to go home now."

"I thought you would say something like that." The engine roared in America's ears, the entire interior rattling. He glanced at the speedometer, his lips pursing as the needle rose in shaky jumps. Russia slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, the back end of the truck swinging in a wide and unmanageable arc. America let out startled little yelp.

"What was that for?" America asked, hoping he only sounded nervous to himself.

"I took a wrong turn," Russia replied calmly. "Tell me more about when you'd like to leave."

America raised an incredulous brow, but went on, one eye trained on the speedometer. "I'd pack my bags up and bolt out if given the chance." He made no attempt to lie about his want to escape, there was no point. "Seriously, first flight out of here and I would be all over that."

The truck was picking up speed again, climbing with every word America said. He checked his seat belt for the seventh time since he had buckled himself in. Russia hadn't bothered to put his on to begin with. America decided Russia's leaden foot was a direct result of him speaking, and promptly shut his mouth as his fingernails gripped his seat, the snowy landscape whipping past in a blur.

After what seemed like a forever of silent praying that they wouldn't crash, America spotted a poorly paved road. Russia slowed to a merciful speed as he approached it, but scattered America's recovering nerves by speeding up again once they were on it, every bump and fissure in the pavement painfully apparent as the car jostled with increasing intensity.

"Would you mind slowing down?" America stared at his bone-white knuckles.

"Ah, but I am speeding on your behalf, America."

"I'm sure town is going to stick around if we slow down some."

"I do not doubt that, but you are in such a hurry to leave, I do not want to make you wait."

"Wait, what?" America chanced a peek at Russia. His lips were drawn into a tight, surreal smile, eyes dull and unfocused. "You're letting me go?"

"No." Russia's lip curled back in a cold sneer. "But you will run or draw attention to yourself once we are at the store."

"Don't start acting like a psychic, and a bad one at that. I haven't done anything." _Yet._

"But you are thinking about it."

America was afraid to look at the speedometer now, afraid to look out the window to watch the scenery blend together at increasing speeds. He stared at his lap instead, where his hands lay neatly folded. "Russia, you've got to trust me on this. I really want to go to the store, that's all I want to do. I trusted you on all the news stuff, right?"

"Right," Russia's voice shifted from icy and unreasonable to something slightly more thoughtful. "You did." His foot eased off the gas pedal, if only a fraction.

"And," America started up, encouraged. "Haven't we been having a real nice time together? Let me tell you, my Russian buddy, that was a _good_ breakfast." He rubbed his stomach to drive home the point.

"Did you really think so?" The truck's speed dropped even more.

"Yes, absolutely, delicious stuff!" America looked out the window. Things weren't moving nearly as fast as they had been before. "You know me, one good meal and I'll keep coming back for more."

"That is true, very true." Russia relaxed, his expression melting into one of easy confidence. "And, if you tried telling them your situation, I could pass you off as a mentally disturbed relative."

"Uh, yeah. I guess that's a possibility." America shot a quizzical frown at Russia. "Hey, not to change the subject, but I have a question for you."

"Please ask."

"I know I just mentioned the news stuff, but, like, you'll tell me what's going on won't you? Not right now, of course. I don't expect that, but eventually."

Russia's fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel. For a long while he didn't answer, instead focusing on the road, on which signs had started to appear. The tic tic tic of the turn signal sounded on and off, hints of civilization trickling by. A phone line here, a sprinkling of houses there, the occasional rickety fence bordering a property sprouting up through the whiteness.

"One day," Russia assured. He reached over and gave America a placating pat on the thigh, followed by the lightest of squeezes. "Now," he brightened. "It is time for shopping."

Gravel hissed and popped beneath the tires as Russia steered the truck into a small parking lot, pulling into a space that was three sizes too small for his mechanical beast. The engine gave a heated sigh as it was shut off.

America just sat there, staring blankly at the shop front, with its foreign words and drawings of food. Was this really it? Was he about to finally get his chance? He nervously smoothed his coat and petted his hair, trying to tame any wayward strands. His heart fluttered weakly in his chest.

"America?"

"Huh?" America turned to Russia with alert eyes.

"Don't try anything." And with that, Russia slipped out of the car and cut around to America's side, opening the door for him.

America unbuckled himself and followed Russia's lead, hiding shaking hands in his pockets, eyes kept low to the ground. Russia was already expecting him to make a break for it, and his little speeding trick was a stark reminder that his mind was not all together sane. America would have to wait, put Russia at ease before he tried to book it.

Russia grabbed a shopping cart and walked through the sliding glass doors of the store. America half-marveled and half-laughed at the sight. He had never really thought about what Russia looked like as he existed from day to day. He'd had a mental image of him outside of their meetings, yes, but an odd one, one inspired by too many science fiction novels and horror movies.

His mental image had never contained Russia in pajamas, or Russia with soaked hair as he got out of the shower. He imagined Russia simply shut off at night, like a great, unfeeling robot. Once the sun rose, he'd boot back up again and do whatever evil things people like him did. But as America tailed Russia, he didn't see the robot of his mind's eyes.

Instead he saw a simple man, a man too tall for the cart he was pushing along. A man that was shopping to fill his cupboards and nothing more. He moved among the scant few who occupied the aisles with an easy fluidity, as if he were no different from them. It was a far cry from how Russia usually snuck about meetings, like a wolf prowling for the weakest of the flock to pick off.

America cast wary glances at those he passed. He was struck by the notion that they somehow knew how very wrong it was for him to be there. The way he carried himself, the fall of his step, even the way he breathed. They had to be aware of how different he was from them, something instinctual, an innate knowledge they couldn't argue with.

They wouldn't help him. They were on Russia's side. America sighed and sped his gait, careful not to let Russia's back out of his sight. He hadn't been given enough time to plan how he was going to get out of this jam, and it wasn't _fair_. With the phone he dialed a number, that was foolproof. But in the store, how could he explain his situation?

Any shoppers he talked to wouldn't understand him, or, if they did speak English, would be mighty confused anyway. And then there was Russia. He probably had a silver tongue with his own people, able to convey the most appropriate emotions and beautiful words to explain that, no, this young man hadn't been kidnapped, but was his 'mentally disturbed relative'. And worst of all, that bastard would probably get away with such an excuse for America's behavior.

"You are being awfully quiet back there." Russia had stopped moving, instead resting his forearm on the handle of the cart as he watched America.

America halted. "Nothin' to say."

"Well, what would you like to eat?" Russia made a small gesture at the rows of food, the volume of his voice low enough so that others would not hear, but not so much that it was a suspicious whisper. "I did not bring you here to stare at the floor all day."

"I wasn't staring at the floor." America lips set into a thin line. "I was staring at you." The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them, his tongue eager to prove Russia wrong.

Russia's eyes rounded for a split second before he regained his composure. "How very kind of you, but it might be best if you pick your meals."

A red hot blush curled around America's neck, his hands rearranging the fur trim of his collar to hide it. His gaze focused on everything but Russia, rolling across row after row of packaged food. They settled on a small tin of what appeared to be cookies, a delicate gold trim looping around the red, cylindrical container.

"I want that." America put the tin in the cart.

"You may have as many things as you'd like." Russia smiled, soft and indulgent. America crossed his arms and looked away. It was hard to stay snooty when Russia wouldn't react. It made America's conscious rear up and tell him off for being so rude.

"You'll regret saying that." America continued his fight to ruffle Russia's feathers.

"You know," Russia calmly informed him. "I have done many things I regret, but this is not one of them."

America snuck a peek at Russia from the corner of his eye, having no words to respond with. It was, in a very surreal way, nice to be told that. Out of everyone in the world, it seemed Russia was the only one who actually wanted to spend time with him, and enjoyed doing so.

Everyone else treated America like he was a chore to have around. But Russia didn't complain that America ate all his food, made too much noise, combed his hair in a stupid way, or generally did everything and anything wrong. It was a welcomed relief, even if the circumstances were not the most desirable.

"So, you like having me around?" America asked, voice lilting with curiosity. He knew it was hardly an appropriate question, but he wanted more of the sweet warmth Russia's responses were making him feel.

"More than either of our languages could ever explain," Russia crooned before pushing the cart along again. It was unabashed flattery, America knew, but he was more than happy to embrace it. Like burning orphanages and kittens stuck in trees, America had always been unable to ignore kind words.

Flashing a thirty-two tooth salute at the back of Russia's head he quickened his step again, sticking to Russia's side as they traversed the store. On occasion he would drift away to pick out something he liked, but always he would return within a few moments, never straying too far from Russia.

"Can we get these?" America held up a bag of chips. "Also, do you know what dogs' feet smell like?"

"Of course, but I do not understand your question. Are 'dogs' feet' a kind or drug, or maybe slang?"

"What? No." America shot the bag at the cart as if he were playing basketball, making a small swish noise as it landed amongst the other groceries. "I mean the actual feet of dogs."

"I have no idea," Russia said honestly.

"Well those chips smell _exactly_ like dogs' feet."

"And you find this desirable?"

"No, just a coincidence, I guess. Doesn't make the chips any less delicious." America rapped his hands on the cart and stared at its packaged contents. "Think we got everything we need until the storm blows over?"

"We are nearly done, yes." Russia wound around the corner into the next aisle, one brimming with alcohol. From golden pints of beer to the clear bottles of vodka, it was ripe for the picking.

"Can't weather the storm without a bit of booze in you, eh?" America brushed his fingertips along a row of frosted glass bottles, his nails flicking against them to make faint tinkling noises. The glow of the overhead lights gave the drinks a tempting shine.

Russia didn't step up to America's bait, instead brushing past him to pluck a single bottle from the many available. America fetched some rum (or at least he thought it was rum from the pirate on the label) and placed it next to Russia's pick. The two bottles looked like lonely outcasts in a cart full of food items, in need of a pal.

"Have you ever had rum and coke?" America asked.

"No. Does it smell like dogs' feet?"

"What? No. That's ridiculous. It's delicious, like the sweet nectar of the Gods."

"America, would you like some coke to go with your rum?"

"I thought you'd never ask." America happily traipsed back to the other beverages and grabbed up some coke. "Honestly, you've got to try rum and coke. I will even mix it for you myself."

"I eagerly await its taste, then." Russia pushed by him, his hip knocking against America's for a playful moment. "Would you like to watch any movies?"

"Would I? _Would I_?" America echoed himself in a disbelieving tone.

"Yes, would you?"

"It was a rhetorical question, stooge. Of course I want to watch movies. I haven't had anything to do beyond stare at the ceiling and go crazy since I started staying at your pad." A concerned frown flitted across Russia's face. "I don't mean like, _real_ crazy. Bored crazy, that's what I'm talking about."

"Ah, yes. I agree I haven't given you much to do as of late." Russia smiled apologetically. "But that is why we will get movies," he amended.

The two of them meandered over to a display where the latest movies were stacked, the covers promising everything from action and romance, to horror and comedy. America thumbed through them, looking for a movie he recognized. All of the titles were written in snowflake language.

"Heck if I know what these movies are about, you pick one." America gave a flippant wave of his hand. Russia didn't need to be told twice, collecting a few tapes in his hands and depositing them in the cart before moving on. America didn't look at them, he wanted to be surprised.

With doggish loyalty, he trotted beside Russia's long, stoic strides as they made for the register. A synthetic, forgettable tone dripped from speakers embedded in the ceiling. It dripped down upon their ears, lazy and comforting in its unique blandness. The line before them thinned at an efficient pace, the low chatter of daily greetings and formalities exchanged again and again until they lost all semblance of meaning to those who heard them.

The woman behind the register was young, bright eyed, and bushy tailed. Before they had even reached her, she was flashing shy glances of acknowledgment at the both of them, the tight bun her hair had been pulled back into bobbing as she nodded in greeting. Russia returned the gesture, and America mimicked him.

When they reached her, she spoke with a blatant casualness that America could appreciate, even if he didn't understand a single word coming from her mouth. Russia smiled kindly and mirrored her tone, hands gesturing in exaggerated motions as he recounted one event after another, the girl interjecting with soft noises of astonishment, disbelief, or light laughter. Things were going well enough, America thought, but then she turned to him and attempted conversation.

"Oh, uh, sorry, I don't know any Russian." He held his hands up in surrender to the language, taking a step back. "I'm with the big guy here." He jerked his thumb at Russia.

The girl's eyes sparkled as he spoke, a bashful smile tugging at her lips. "I know English!" she informed him happily, almost ecstatically, as if she had never had an opportunity to tell anyone before now. Her accent was heavy, but certainly understandable.

"You sure do," America nearly balked in amazement. "Nice to meet you, my name is Alfred."

"Nice to meet you, too." Her eyes flicked away as she spoke, her voice holding a slight quiver, pleased that a native speaker approved of her. "My name is─" she said what must have been her name, but it sounded more like an entire address to America.

"How very interesting," Russia interrupted. "I had no idea you could speak English so well," Russia repeated the impossible name.

"I learned it in school," the girl answered brightly, continuing to scan their items, though her hand failed to keep the same efficient pace it had worked so diligently at with the previous customers. "So Alfred, what brings you to Russia?"

"What brings me here? Well, bit of a long story, if I'm going to be honest." He looked to Russia, who was giving him a look that America imagined people saw before they found themselves in line for false teeth. "Basically, I'm here on vacation."

"Yes, vacation," Russia picked up where America had left off, assuming control of the situation. "He is my cousin from the United States." America waited for him to tack on that he was rather insane, or at least 'disturbed', but he never did.

After that, every time the girl would direct a question at America, or somehow try to fish him back into the conversation, Russia would find a way to block her, answering on America's behalf, cutting him off whenever he made to open his mouth. Eventually, both America and the girl, tired of trying to work their way around their middleman, gave up. Russia was positively grinning at their silence as he paid the bill. America grumbled under his breath as he helped carry the bags back to the behemoth mobile.

"It's not illegal for me to talk to the nice folks at the cash register, is it?"

"No," Russia told him as they hoisted the backs into the back. "But I did not want you to be tempted."

"I'm not going to be 'tempted' to spill the beans to a little kid like that. For all I know you'd send her to a gulag." Russia helped him back into the passenger seat.

"I would do no such thing," he stiffly informed America, standing beside the open door. "Now, listen very closely to me."

America cocked his head to the side. "What's up?"

"I need to buy something in that store." Russia pointed at a door not far from the grocery. Musical notes were painted in one of the windows, and the shop's sign displayed several varying instruments. "I will only be gone a moment, you will need to stay here."

"Sure thing, I'll sit tight."

"Good," Russia murmured, reaching up to stroke America's hair in appreciation. America shied away. Or he meant to, really. His mind and body were at odds, wanting to both lean into the touch and pull back. Russia's hand fell away before America could make a concrete decision.

"Go do your thing," America prompted and went back to staring at the storefront. "I'll be right here."

The truck swayed at the door was shut, rocking America with it. He watched as Russia disappeared into the music store, the glass door swinging shut behind him, catching his eyes for the smallest of seconds as he checked back on America one last time. America stretched his legs out before him and put his hands behind his head, settling in to wait.

A child with a puffy pink coat skipped across his vision, a stuffed animal hanging from her arms. The toy kicked a bit, causing the child to drop it. America straightened up and adjusted his glasses, squinting at the scene. It wasn't a toy at all, but instead a very small dog, apparently unhappy with how it had been handled. A leash ran from the dog's collar to the child's hand, which was presently swiping at her face.

Another child tromped up behind the first one, a young boy with waving arms and wild hair. America watched the two as he would watch a play unfold at the theater, his seat front row and center as their drama unfolded.

The boy shouted at the girl's back, not in anger, but a friendly, exuberant tone. The girl turned to face him, the backs of her hands carrying away the tears that slipped from her eyes. The boy stood for a moment, his arms frozen in an awkward flail as he tried to make sense of her crying. She pointed to the dog after a moment, and then her arm. America figured it must have nipped her to get away.

In an instant the boy's arms had turned from stiff, unmoving limbs to comforting ropes, lashing themselves to the girl's body. She cried weakly into his shoulder as his hands moved at a frantic pace, first petting her back, then rubbing circles, and finally settling to artlessly pat her hair. The dog stood by, unmoved by the scene.

America breathed a bittersweet sigh at the sight. He loved their simple emotions and their simple reactions, he loved to watch their puppyish love in action as they planted big kisses and thanks and comfort on one another's cheeks. He wanted to jump right out of the truck and scoop them up in his arms, but most of all, he wanted that affection. Such thoughtless amounts of love, receiving kindness for the smallest of problems, as simple to obtain as turning on a tap and watching water pour out.

The children skipped off together hand in hand as America quietly pined, his heart aching to reenact what he had witnessed. Ever since he had come to live with Russia he had lived a life nearly devoid of physical and verbal affections. Sure, Russia gave the odd hug or bizarre compliment, but that wasn't _enough_. Nothing was ever enough for America.

He never could settle for the small things in life. Given a hug, he'd want a kiss, given a compliment, he'd want a sonnet. Given the opportunity to flap his wings, he'd want to soar. America rapped his fingernails against the armrest of the door as he wallowed in his loneliness. Russia was like that too, he decided, never able to settle with a single scrap, always wanting the whole meal. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they gave into each other. Not a lot, only a bit. The smallest smidge.

America let out a low growl. Being stuck with Russia all day, all the time was messing with his head. It was like shoving teenagers together at a camp for a week and not expecting half of them to come back in one form of tangled relationship or another. He bumped his head restlessly against the back of his seat. Russia and relationships didn't go together. Not ever, not now.

And what was taking Russia so long, anyway? America played with the handle of the door, tugging it, letting it snap back, tugging it again. His vision became unfocused as he stared at the door of the music shop, waiting for it to open, waiting for Russia to come back. But it remained closed.

America continued to fiddle with the door handle, the snapping growing to an irritatingly quick pace as he plucked at it, his finger slipping on occasion in his haste. He snagged it more tightly, his finger yanking with impatience. The lock disengaged, the door springing open. America's hand immediately went to grab it, but missed by mere inches.

He looked at the open door, then the music shop, his eyes swiveling back and forth. He'd said he'd wait in the truck like a good little boy, yes, but Russia had also said he'd only be a moment. An eye for an eye, a lie for a lie. That was the way of the world, and in this case, a rather fair exchange. With one last glance at the store, America slipped from his seat and out in to the world, a sly smile gracing his lips.

* * *

A/N:

-I will love you forever if you point out any typos you might find!

-Fritos do smell like dogs' feet, I'm being completely serious. I actually looked it up and it has to do with bacteria. Either way, I'm happy I haven't had fritos in a few years.

-If anyone is a little confused by Russia's 'many horses' comment, he's referring to the horsepower of the vehicle.

-RUN, AMERICA, RUN.


	10. Chapter 10

America's boots thumped against cracked pavement as he walked, his neck often craning to cast wary glances over his shoulders. Freedom didn't taste nearly as pleasant as he had thought it would. It was cold and nerve-wracking, not at all the warm satisfaction he had been expecting. Every car that trundled by caused his heart to skip, sending alarm licking through his veins as he broke into a momentary run, slowing only when the icy air was too much for his lungs to handle.

He followed a straight path until the sidewalk dwindled into asphalt before stepping off the road and into the snow, his boots dragging as he struggled on, hoping to find a sign telling him how close the next town was. He'd been tempted to bolt right back to the grocery store when he'd snuck out the truck, but couldn't bring himself to go to the cashier for help. Heroes didn't make young women help them, _they_ helped young women. Going to her would only cause trouble for the both of them, so he instead opted to skip town and look for a pay phone in the next one over, even if he had no spare change to speak of.

A sign loomed on the horizon, barely more than the smallest of squares to America's eyes. He forged ahead, focusing on his destination to keep his mind off how his shoulders shivered and his teeth clicked together for want of warmth. He folded his arms in a closely bound hug as a gust of wind whistled by him, slipping between his legs and battering his cheeks. If this was what the news considered nice weather, America didn't want to wait around for the oncoming storm.

He neared the sign, watching as it bent and wobbled feebly with the passing of nearby speeding cars. The numbers next to the names written upon it were all three figures long without fail. Fired up by frustration, America kicked at the posts that held the sign up a handful of times, his toes too numb to register any kind of pain. He followed it up by giving the innocent object a taste of his right hook, and a sampling of his uppercut, the fruit of his violence being a few solid dents. The sign retaliated by biting at his knuckles and slicing his skin.

"This is bullshit!" America yelled at the sign, but his words were whipped away before he himself could fully hear them. Blood trickled from his stinging hand and into the snow, blooming scarlet against white. America tucked it back under his arm and carried on.

He wouldn't freeze to death, even if he hadn't found shelter by the time the storm kicked into high gear. Not that he had ever stuck himself in what would be considered a life-threatening situation, but from what he had picked up from others who had been, and reflecting on the wounds he himself had received in the past, America was quite sure crummy weather couldn't pick him off.

Maybe he'd just curl up and turn into a hunk of ice or something. He'd thaw in the spring like a frozen creek, come out of hibernation like a bear. But he wasn't a creek or a bear. In all likelihood he'd break down into a pathetic, whimpering man who couldn't move more than a few feet due to the cold. If anyone found him, they'd call the hospital right away, and he didn't want to be there when they wondered why he wasn't dead yet. Then there'd be questions, so many questions that America himself would be unable to answer.

When they saw he wouldn't talk, the higher ups would be brought in, every self-styled man of science would want to run one test or another, and eventually it'd end up in the hands of the government. America didn't trust them to leave a memo letting his own government know they'd found such an interesting person, either. If even the slightest hint of luck shone on him, America would wake up in a hospital bed to face Russia, who might have enough kindness in his jaded heart not to allow anyone to use America as a guinea pig.

America's reasoning blurred as his feet tangled and sent him face-first into the snow. He made only the smallest effort to stand again, barely expending enough energy to get himself in a sitting position. When his best hope of running away ended up with him right back in Russia's grubby paws, what was the point of escaping to begin with?

He wondered if he could zip back to the behemoth mobile and crawl in before Russia came back. It hardly seemed feasible, since he'd left roughly a quarter of an hour ago, and it would take even longer for him to get back now that he was wearing down. On the off chance he did manage to sneak back in, he couldn't exactly explain the injury on his hand away as a paper cut. Too cold to invest in deep thought, he decided to wait, his mind numb and blank.

Several long drawn out minutes passed in the biting cold. America huddled in on himself, knees clutched to his chest as his vision glazed over. He rocked slightly in effort to gain an inkling more warmth, and the trees that lined the road rocked with him, bending to the wind. He rested his chin on his knees and let his eyelids flutter shut, miserable and frozen and just wanting to warm up.

The deep roar of an engine rumbled down the road, the far away bellow of the beast. America didn't need to look to know who was coming. Instead, he grudgingly scooted closer to the road until his boots scuffed gravel. Still seated, he held his hand out, thumb sticking straight up as he made the ageless gesture of the hitchhiker. The truck rolled up beside him, and he dragged himself into the passenger seat without a word.

America tried to buckle his seat belt, but found his fingers too stiff and frozen to be of much use. He tossed the belt aside and sighed heavily, coughing the rest of the cold from his lungs. There was a small humming noise and a click, and before America could stop to think of what the noise was, hot air was ushered from the small heating vents on the dashboard. He held his hands before them eagerly, rubbing them together as if preparing to receive something of great value.

"Do you think what you did was cute?" Russia's hand snapped out, cuffing America about the ear.

"No," America quietly answered. "It was dumb."

"That's right," Russia hissed.

America caught sight of Russia's hand moving towards him again and withered at the sight, curling away to avoid the blow. He quivered and waited, his chilled body shivering as he bit his lip, braced for the impact. In place of the firm smack he had prepared for, he felt a gentle tugging at his hand.

"What happened?" Russia asked, turning America's hand over, his eyes inscrutable as they took index of the cuts.

"Nothing." America moved as far as he could away from Russia, pressing himself up against the door, pulling his hand away. Russia moved to his arm, lifting it up.

"You got blood on your nice coat," Russia tutted callously before letting America's arm fall back down.

America didn't have the energy to answer Russia, nor the courage to egg him on further. If he could get away with a simple cuff, he'd certainly take it without question. All he could do was wallow in his own idiocy. To sneak out of the car and run off into the snow, such a stupid thing. It wasn't even in hindsight that it was such a bad idea, he knew it was stupid from the start, but nonetheless he had jumped at the chance.

Fat lot of good it had done him. If anything, it was discouraging. Any further chance of being let out of the house had probably been completely annihilated, destroyed by his own hand. All he had to look forward to were bleak winter days and a stupid little room with precious little to do. He lurched forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, his heels of his palms pressing against his eyes. He couldn't let so much progress slip away.

"I'm sorry," America murmured weakly, truth ringing in his words. He was sorry he had run in the first place, sorry that he had let himself be caught again, sorry he had ever tricked himself into believing he might be able to get away. "You have to believe me, I really am sorry─" he choked on his own breath for a moment in his rush to apologize.

He couldn't cry again. That was the promise he had made to Russia, 'no more tears', and if he broke that promise, Russia wouldn't trust him in the slightest, and getting back Russia's trust (if he's had any of it to begin with) was the most important thing. So instead of disassembling and becoming a giant, blubbering child, America carefully breathed in, out, in, out. He counted to one hundred, then back down to one. Soon his shudders and repressed tears faded, becoming nothing but a dull, saddening ache in his chest.

He raised his head, eyes bleary and bloodshot, and looked to Russia. There was no way to discern Russia's mood from his appearance. His sights were set straight ahead, completely focused on the road as he gripped the wheel between his fingers in a way that was neither casually loose nor unusually tight. The needle of the speedometer balanced at a comfortable pace without change. If anything, Russia seemed distant, his mind settled in a faraway place where his emotions could not be easily deciphered.

America went back to looking at his hand. The bleeding had all but stopped, the wound turning to a glossy scab. Every time he tried to get away, he always ended up hurting himself. There was no need to worry about Russia's pipe when he could already do himself in just as easily, even if by accident. He sighed and rolled his shoulders.

"Russia, you've got to believe me. I don't know why I did it─ Well I _do_ know why I did it, but it was stupid. I saw these little kids and they made me so lonely. I just, I can't take it anymore." He laughed to hide his cracking voice. "I can't do this."

"Do what?" Russia questioned, his tone flat and uninterested, residing in the same space his mind was.

"All of this. Maybe you're used to being a lonely old hermit who shacks up in a crazy house all year, but I don't work like that."

"How do you work?"

"Like most sane people, I enjoy novelties such as going outside, maintaining healthy relationships, and engaging in friendly banter."

"I let you go outside," Russia said the words as if they were a terrible mistake, something he should never have done.

"And then you ditched me to go stare at balalaikas and accordions."

Russia hit the flat of his hand against the steering wheel, exasperation surfacing in his voice. "Yes, I did, and that was wrong."

"I mean, what were you expecting me to─Wait, hold up. What did you do wrong?"

"Leaving you alone like that. Your heart is too weak to handle such a temptation."

_Weak heart my ass_, America grumbled inwardly, though his hunched posture shed some of its tension. "Oh, well, in that case you're absolutely right. Running off and expecting me to sit tight." America sniffed and held his head high. "You know me, I always need company."

Russia nodded, reaching over to turn the radio back on. The ambient noise of a string quartet trickled from the speakers. "Would you stay with me if you had company?"

America was perplexed by Russia's question. Was Russia himself supposed to be his provided company, assuming America agreed, or was there another person lined up? Curiosity getting the best of him, America couldn't help but say, "Depends who we're talking about."

"Canada."

America blood froze in his veins as it rushed from his face, forming a jagged, clotted stream. "No, not Canada," he croaked weakly. "Don't take Canada as well."

"But if it makes you happy─"

"Leaving Canada _out_ of this will make me happy." America clapped a hand to his forehead. "I mean it, buddy. I don't want anyone else to be in on this. And, c'mon, you can't snatch people off the streets for my own amusement."

"Society generally does not agree with such things, but for you I would do it."

The blood that had fled America's face returned to dust his cheeks. "Oh, hm. Well, that's very kind of you and all, but it's really not necessary." And it was kind, in a very strange, super villainy sort of way. Not that he would ever admit it out loud. "How 'bout we focus on getting back to the house before that storm comes chuggin' along?"

Russia hummed in agreement and turned the radio up. America made no attempt to keep track of the time as they made their way home. There was no embedded clock as far as he could see, and Russia had made a dizzying number of turns once they were traveling through the snow again. Instead he enjoyed the steady warmth that radiated from the heater, and soaked up the knowledge that Russia didn't seem particularly angered at his attempt to get away.

When the barn became visible, America was unable to stop the small embers of thankfulness from stoking in his stomach. He really hadn't enjoyed the outing at all, and was only too eager to put the catastrophe behind him before Russia could change his mind as to whose fault his escape attempt should be attributed.

The two of them dutifully lugged the groceries inside the empty home and set to the task of restocking the cupboards. America insisted that he help with the process, despite his lack of experience with what went where. As a result he was constantly holding up one thing or another and interrupting Russia's own progress to wave the food in his face and ask where it should go. Despite the exceedingly long amount of time it took for the job to be done because of that, America's eagerness to help out kept Russia's temper beautifully calm and even.

After a simple and uneventful dinner in which America learned that, no, there would be no drinking just yet, they retired to Russia's room, where America's thoughts overtook his tongue.

"Tell me if this is kind of, you know, _too soon_, but did you get anything at the music shop?" America flopped on the bed, wriggling in the air like a salmon leaping upstream.

Russia went to his writing desk and pulled a book from inside his coat, laying it on the table with a resounding thwack, the subtle wave of his hand indicating it to be his sole purchase. America rolled his eyes at the sight. No one really pulled things from their coat like that, it only happened in the movies.

"Sheet music, of course. I will play some for you once you let me treat that little cut of yours." The skin about Russia's eyes creased as he smiled, though not a hint of tooth was showing.

"This thing?" America looked at the injury as if it were the smallest speck of dust, unworthy of being so much as noticed. "What is this? Let me tell you, it's nothing, that's what. Don't even worry your pretty little head about it."

Russia ignored him, having already gone to the bathroom to retrieve some supplies as America prattled on about how he'd received worse and that a little nick wouldn't keep him down, though his voice faltered slightly when he saw the tell-tale bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

"America," Russia lightly intoned, though there was a certain irritation lurking in the back of his throat. "I told you I would take care of you. Do not try to stop me."

America sputtered and nodded as the mattress dipped, Russia taking a seat next to him with the bottle in hand. "Wait, you're doing it now? Like, on the bed?" It wasn't that he was scared, but he didn't want Russia to maybe, possibly, on the off chance, see the kinds of dumb faces he made when it came to hydrogen peroxide. That stuff always hurt worse than the cut itself.

"Yes, here and now. Hold out your hand."

"You'll get the bed wet."

"No, I won't."

"Can't we do this in the bathroom or something?" America stood abruptly as he watched Russia unscrew the cap.

"Wherever you are most comfortable."

"Why do you have to do this to begin with anyway?" America asked as he slowly ambled towards the bathroom.

"I don't want it to get infected." Russia was done letting America take his sweet time and made it apparent by nipping at the back of his bare heels with his own feet. America hopped instinctively forward and hurried himself.

America settled himself at the sink's counter, leaning on it using his forearm while he held his other hand over the mouth of the sink. His fingernails rapped impatiently at the marbled surface, eyes flicking to the mirror. His image reflected the same begrudging attitude as Russia sidled up beside him.

All pomp and pretense was quickly swept aside as Russia's hand encircled America's wrist, gripping steadily, twisting and bending it to the desired angle at which the peroxide would best be able to strike. America sucked in air through his teeth and stared himself down as the liquid splashed against the wound, bubbling angrily. Russia gently blew on the cut a few times before rummaging through the medicine cabinet.

America kicked at the floor with his toes and swayed his head from side to side. It was always the cleaning of injuries that was the worst, he was sure of it. When he'd punched the sign there hadn't even been a hint of pain, but then Russia had decided that was all too well for him and had to make it worse. And now he was bandaging America's hand with gauze like it was some kind of serious problem and it was really all too ridiculous.

"It's only a scrape, bub, nothing to get worked up about," America said as Russia inspected the bandage.

"If anyone is getting worked up, I would think it might be you." Russia bent at the waist, and before America knew it, the light pressure of Russia's lips were at his hand, kissing against the gauze, one arm hooked behind his back in a formal bow.

Every hair on the back of America's head prickled, jumping to attention to the sight. His cheeks flushed hotly as Russia peered up at him, the vivid violet of his gaze showing though dark, spidery lashes that curled so beautifully in imitation of Russia's bowed body, the light playing across the shimmering snowflakes that dusted them.

"Snowflakes," America sputtered witlessly, rooted to the spot.

"Snowflakes?" Russia repeated, righting himself with a smile, though he still held America's hand in his own.

"Your lashes─eyelashes, some snowflakes are stuck on 'em." America pulled back a few steps and gestured at his own face with a nervous enthusiasm that knocked his glasses askew. Russia politely fixed them before answering.

"They've always been like that." Russia gave himself a once over in the mirror and brushed at his lashes, his attempt to dislodge the snow proving vain.

"No they haven't, I would have noticed," America told him, surreptitiously inching onto his tiptoes when he noticed the size difference between him and Russia in the mirror. Not that it was overwhelming, or even noticeable. It only seemed worse because America had taken his boots off. He checked the floor; Russia wasn't wearing shoes anymore either. America frowned. Clearly, Russia had decided to have a very tall day to spite America's subconscious decision to have a very short day.

"I can assure you the snow has always been there, America." Russia rested a placating hand on America's shoulder and squeezed, signaling an end to their brief debate.

"If you say so," America remarked airily, hardly in agreement.

Having nothing to do with his hands, America rubbed his wrists together, as though attempting to slip them from roped bonds. Russia made no attempt to leave him, instead taking on a statuesque stance at his side. America could sense his gaze, feel it rushing across his body as it attempted to pick up some kind of reaction to what Russia had done, something more than a simple mention of snowflakes. America crumbled under his eyes and gave in.

"Thanks for taking care of my hand." America managed an awkward one-armed hug. "Again."

He instantly found himself wrapped in a bear-like embrace, his breathing partially constricted by the hold. "I am only treating you as I would a friend," he said softly, his chin settling atop America's head as he rocked him slightly. "Surely, if I were in trouble, you would help me as well, yes?"

"You know it," America answered without hesitation. He'd help anyone in need, no matter who they were. Russia let him go after being reassured and returned to his writing desk, seeming to have trusted the integrity of America's words.

America began his customary round of the room after that, not knowing what to do with himself as Russia leafed through the sheet music he had in his hands. The flutter of the pages filled the silence of the room, interrupted by the occasional noise of consideration as Russia looked over a piece he was particularly interested in.

"What instrument do you play?" America wondered aloud as he made his way over to Russia.

"I play many."

"Don't play hardball with me, I meant which one are you going to play tonight?"

Russia shrugged a single shoulder at the corner of the room. America's head swiveled as it followed the movement, ending when he saw the large black box that always seemed to be present.

"The body box?"

Russia raised his head and gave America a most peculiar look. "The what?"

"Uh, well, I figured maybe you kept bodies in there or something. Sure it sounds dumb but I couldn't figure out what the heck else it was."

"It's a cello case."

"Fair enough," America conceded. He'd never given much thought to the shapes cello cases could come in, but it was reasonable enough that they might be rectangular as opposed to the more common silhouetted cases. "Got any idea what you're going to play?"

"A basic one, yes."

"Anything I can do to make myself useful?"

"Sit."

America obligingly took a seat at the chess table, but, without so much as look up, Russia gave a disapproving grunt. America moved to the bed, and from the nod Russia gave to the book, decided that was the best place to wait. He lay back on the covers, ankles crossed and hands folded over his abdomen, staring at the smooth plains of the drab ceiling. He breathed in the oddly musty smell of a furnace stirring to life, a weary groan rattling through wrought iron vents.

"Did you hear that?" America sat up. The house had never made such ghastly noises before.

"I turned the heater on."

"Yeah, but it never made that noise before."

"I haven't turned it on recently."

America raised a brow at Russia's back. "So you sit here in Ice Station zero without heating unless you have company?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Russia didn't respond to America's question, instead taking a chair from the chess table and pushing it next to the bed, following the movement by fetching the cello case as well. He carried it easily in one hand, his shoulder neither tensing nor straining under the heavy weight of the instrument. America remained upright and leaned his back against the pillow that rested at the headboard.

The silvered buckles of the case snapped brusquely, their hinges well maintained and without the slightest sign of rust. Russia quickly had the cello in front of him, the fingers of one hand artfully perched along the neck of the instrument as his other loosely held the horse-hair bow.

"Don't you need the sheet music?"

"I can recall it without problem." The bow was poised against the strings, ready to strike its sweet melody.

"Wait." America held his palm up. "I want to be nice and comfortable for this." And it was true. He was getting his own very personal concert and by gum he was going to enjoy the living daylights out of it. But what if he enjoyed it_ too_ much and cried? Not that he often cried while listening to music, but sometimes when the notes slipped so seamlessly together and the inflection of the chords were so minutely perfect, he couldn't help himself. Judging by the way Russia's eyes gleamed with shy pride, America was sure he'd be a sniveling heap in no time at all.

He postponed his embarrassment by fluffing the pillow he was resting on for a good deal longer than was necessary, hands kneading the goose feather contents into a mushy pulp. He reseated himself several times, pushing off against the bed and thumping back down, wriggling about the make a comfortable cubby for his body. As he started to run perilously low on little things to do to prolong the performance, the most beautiful thing happened. The phone rang.

Russia didn't seem to agree that the noise was a Godsend. He didn't even blink at the sound, instead smiling a dizzying sort of smile that acknowledged the phone without really thinking about it, as if he had merely heard the bothersome buzz of a fly, but knew better than to bother with it.

America twiddled his thumbs. "Going to answer that?"

"No."

"You sure?"

The ringing stopped, and Russia's head nodded happily as America resigned himself to his teary fate. The ringing started up again before Russia could play a single note, and his dazed smile melted slightly, soured at the continuing interruption. It vanished completely the third time the phone blared, and he carefully set the cello to lean against his chair for a moment, the pointed stand balancing just so as he pulled the phone from the cradle and gave a short barking answer into the receiver.

America played with his socked feet as Russia spoke on the phone, his eyes straying to the floor and remaining downcast as the conversation carried on. Russia was growling in anger at whatever the person on the other end of the line was telling him, hardly allowing the caller to explain themselves before going on the attack. Tension slunk into the room like an invisible, smothering fog.

The heater continued to drone on in the background, warmth squeezing through the vents in a constant stream. America ran the back of his hand along his forehead to do away with the slight sheen of perspiration that was forming on his forehead before going back to pick at his clothes. Like a child in the midst of fighting parents, America had no idea as to what was worth arguing so ardently over, let alone how to stop it.

Russia finished the call with a few hissed words and slammed the phone down. America jumped, but didn't look up, instead training his ears on the heavy, defeated sigh trailing from Russia's lips, on the nearly inaudible pad of bare feet as they approached the bed. He snuck a look out of the corner of his eyes to see Russia solemnly putting the cello back in its case. America was rewarded with no sense of victory at the sight, only a guilty residue, as if he had been the one to make the phone ring.

"I need to make some phone calls," Russia informed him, his voice soft and saddened. "But I will play for you sometime soon."

"I'd like that. And don't worry about tonight, when duty calls, you gotta answer."

Russia smiled wryly. "That is true." He set the black case back against the wall and went to the bookcase, hesitating for only the smallest of moments before plucking a few choice tomes. He tossed them on the bed at America's feet. "Amuse yourself."

America mumbled his thanks and pulled one of the books to his lap. Its cover was plain and brown, the once sharp edges now rounded and dog eared from years of use. America opened to the first page. A small inscription was written, probably explaining what the book contained as there was no outward indication on the spine. America turned to the next, greeted by a plethora of black and white photographs, all with men in military apparel and pensive expressions.

Russia stood with them, off to the side in what must have been an attempt to not draw attention to himself, but still America's gaze fell directly on him. His face was partially blurred from the long exposure of the photograph, but his strong nose, kind expression, and gently upturned lips were easy to make out. Even in the fuzzy, colorless image, his eyes were piercingly vivid, as though he had been sitting in the photograph for decade upon decade, just waiting for America to open the book so that he could smile at him. America smiled back.

He flipped through in rapid succession, glancing off the meaningless and unrecognizable faces, lingering over the solitary portraits of Russia that were sprinkled throughout the book. The ironed and pressed dress uniforms flattered his handsome figure in ways that America could do nothing but envy.

He found his fingers tracing longingly over the elegant epaulets and twining braids that adorned Russia's clothes, the buffed buttons and crisp collar alike disappearing under his touch. But most of all, his fingers moved along Russia's face, the tip of his nail following the same simple curve that Russia's lips did. It was a stark contrast to how Russia was behaving presently, back on the phone and arguing with one voice after another, repeatedly hanging up only to dial another number.

America did his best to ignore it by studying the photos before him, but the task was proving itself harder with every minute as Russia's voice rose. The growing heat wasn't helping either, sweat beading on the back of America's neck as he hunched over the books.

He looked through the second book after finishing with the first. On every page there seemed to be a familiar face beyond Russia's. There was Ukraine cooking in the kitchen, Lithuania mending a torn sleeve, and Belarus sitting idly by, her face painted with an eerily passive expression as she stared at a point unseen. Seeing them all again unsettled America, stirred confusion and unwanted pain in his stomach. He didn't want to think about how others had freedom while he was trapped inside with Russia, forced to take their place.

America set the book aside and ignored the third in its entirety. He had no desire to see pictures of the outside world in all its splendor and the people who inhabited it. It was like having a fine meal set before him while he stomach growled away, unable to put even the smallest forkful of food to his lips. It was a self-imposed torture he refused to partake in.

America again focused his attentions on his clothes. The frantic flutter of fingertips at the hem of his jeans took up his vision, picking quietly as Russia continued in his arguing. America's vision became lazy and unfocused as he listened to the gritted words that came from between clenched teeth, the angered thump of a fist as it thudded against the table to stress his point.

The sounds frayed America's nerves as easily as he did his pants, stripping away the woven fibers until all that was left was raw material. His heart was tired from the long day, ready to be done with the overly-passionate conversations and smothering warmth of the heater. Only when the phone slammed again so loudly that he nearly yelped did he find the courage to speak up.

"Russia, I appreciate you trying to warm the place up and all, but it's getting kind of boiling in here. Mind turning it down a notch?"

Russia's back stiffened for a moment, and he turned to face America, a slightly bemused look in his eyes, as though he was surprised America had stuck around. "Ah, yes. I forgot about it completely..." he trailed off as he left.

America stared after Russia, even after he'd vanished from view. Russia's skin had been completely without the slightest shine, not a hint of sweat showing on his brow. Russia often mentioned in passing he was cold if anyone asked how he was, but surely he couldn't be unaffected by heat in general, could he? America resolved to spring the question just as soon as he took care of the phone.

Without bothering to listen for Russia's footsteps, America got on his hands and knees, noisily crawling beneath the table with a few knocks to his noggin. He pulled the phone cord from the jack, not enough to make the disconnection obvious, but enough so that there would be no more calls to rile Russia. America dove back on the bed in the nick of time, Russia returning the moment America's backside made contact with the mattress.

"Talk to me, big guy," America said, patting the space beside him.

"I would enjoy nothing more, I assure you, but I'm afraid there are things to attend to."

"C'mon," America coaxed. "Let _them_ call _you_."

"I am sure they will any moment now."

"Deal with it when the time comes. Until then, sit." America thwacked the bed impatiently. "You can tell me all about it in the meantime."

"What is there to say?" Russia relented, taking a seat next to America. "Your stupid country with its stupid little citizens will not cooperate as they should. That is like them, isn't it? Unable to agree to deals not penned by their own hand." He shook his head in irritation.

America gave an embarrassed shrug, knowing he should be affronted, but too tuckered out to cultivate the emotion. Russia seemed to notice, and his tone immediately fell to an apologetic hush as his hand went searching for America's own. It was cool and comfortable to the touch, like the reverse side of a pillow.

"You know I do not really mean that. I am merely impatient."

"Why?"

"I want things to be better already."

"Me, too," America agreed with a sigh. "Me, too. But hey, these things take time, whatever they are. So why not relax a bit, maybe in the morning things will have straightened themselves out."

"I hardly think the situation could be solved so simply─"

"_Shhh_," America silenced him. "You asked if I would take care of you if you needed it earlier, I said yes. Well, guess what? You're stressin' all over the place so it's a good time to return the favor." He raised Russia's hand up and nonchalantly traced the fleshy web of lines on his palm, staring intently at them to avoid seeing Russia's reaction, fearing that he would be brushed off and the commotion would continue.

Russia made to argue, but his lips failed to do anything but smile kindly at America's concern. He gave a single nod of agreement and easily lowered himself onto the bed, curling on his side, his head resting lightly against America's thigh. Robbed of the partner they had been playing with, America's hands fell uselessly to his sides, his left arm draping casually over Russia.

America stayed upright, even when his back began to hurt. If he lay down as Russia had, he'd lower himself to fair game, inviting Russia to gather him up in his arms. Not that Russia needed any encouragement to begin with. As the minutes ticked away, and the casual stiffness of their bodies was stolen with the pass of time, Russia had, without warning or explanation, hitched a leg over America's own.

It was a puzzling advancement for America, stopping him from getting up without dislodging his bedmate. It didn't strike him as the same possessive act that was the makeup of an arm around his shoulders, but instead something that conveyed a silent request not to leave. America obliged, feeling he had no other viable option than to call Russia on the move, which would really ruin the whole tranquil vibe they had going on between them.

America absentmindedly patted Russia's shoulder in an irregular tattoo as his mind submerged in lazy thought. It wasn't a half bad situation living with Russia, the more he dwelled on it. There were no calls to be made, or meetings to attend, he didn't even have to do the dishes if he didn't feel like it. The whole experience was more like a very bizarre vacation he was not allowed to end. But maybe, if he played his cards right, he could stray from the itinerary. His hand was looking pretty strong at the moment.

"Russia, hey Russia," America whispered, shaking Russia lightly. "Are you awake?"

"Yes." Russia's voice was perfectly clear, missing the groggy rumble that those roused from sleep possessed.

"Can we go outside again soon?" America asked, his voice rising into a questioning pitch as his hand rubbed against Russia's back, giving it a friendly scratch.

Russia said a few words, mumbled so closely together they were indecipherable. They didn't sound particularly agreeable.

"I'm sorry, gonna need you to run that by me again." America shifted, slightly restless, kicking his legs in an attempt to shrug Russia's hold on him.

"We will talk about it in the morning, America."

"Why not now, though? Is it because you're sleepy? If that's the problem I'll skedaddle right back to my room."

"No." Russia's leg-grip tightened. "But I must think it over."

"C'mon," America whined softly, the low, unignorable request of a child. "It'll be fun. We can build snow men. Or hey, why not spread some equality? We can make snow women as well. Also, snow kids. There's always snow animals too. Golly, I didn't even think of the animals. Hey, Russia, what kind of animals do you have around here─"

America continued on in endless talk of snow and wildlife for a good while until his mouth was dry and throat parched. Usually his rambling bit would get him what he wanted, his incessant talking wearing the patience of others down to the point where they bowed to his desires and admitted defeat. If his longwinded speech was bothering Russia, he showed no sign of it. He was a tough cookie, America had to hand him that.

"Enough about me." America yawned. He hadn't been talking to himself but he was bored out of his skull and wanted to change the subject. "Tell me about _you_."

"I live in a house with a nice little man who thinks that if he talks enough he will get what he wants."

_Busted_. "It works most of the time," America admitted sheepishly.

"I'm sure with others it does, and I commend you for your tenacity, but I am rather fond of hearing your voice."

A faint blush crept along America's neck. He wanted to let Russia know that he could say the same thing, but the notion was heavy and bothersome on his tongue, clinging like a single drop of water that refused to fall. Needing to disturb the awkward silence Russia's compliment had left in its wake, he said the next thing on the forefront of his mind.

"Are you seriously _always_ cold?"

Russia stirred, releasing America and propping himself up on one elbow to catch America's eye. "Yes," he said plainly.

"Since the beginning of time?"

"As far back as I can remember."

"What if you held a flame to your skin then, would you burn?"

Russia laughed, but there was a sad undercurrent rippling beneath the sound. "It would hurt, America. I can feel heat to an extent, but it is... far off, superficial." He scratched at his chin as he searched for the right words. "Are you familiar with how strange words sound when you hear them underwater?"

America nodded fervently.

"It is like that."

America stayed silent, his curious expression slackening off into a blank mask as he tried to understand the comparison. He couldn't complete the jump from how sound traveled underwater to how Russia must have felt heat. No matter the way he was feeling it, it certainly didn't sound particularly pleasurable. Almost taunting, even. Beneath the waves sound was obvious, but enough of a garbled mess that it was impossible to grasp a coherent understanding of the words. Was it like that for Russia as well, the concept of warmth tantalizing close, just barely out of reach? America shivered at the idea, slipping his legs from Russia's hold and drawing his knees to his chest.

"Sorry to hear that, buddy," he murmured against his kneecap. "But on the bright side, I guess you'll never have a fever, eh?"

"I suppose that is an upside, yes." Russia fell back onto the bed, though he had subtly crawled his way up so that his face now nuzzled against America's side.

America rested his hand atop Russia's head, his fingers twining, threading, and tripping throughout the pale tresses. He thought about fevers, and how they caused people to act, the strange behaviors, the unusual words that fell from their lips and their lack of awareness when it came to how outlandish their overall actions were. As America's touch skimmed from Russia's hair and trickled down to his jaw, he surmised that perhaps Russia had a similar affliction.

The cold messed with his head. He couldn't in all honesty be held accountable for the way he acted. America sighed and rested his hand against the cool, pale cheek of his captor. No wonder Russia never seemed to grasp why others avoided him, or generally found his personality rather peculiar. The poor guy just needed someone who could put up with his illness.

America stifled a deep yawn and glanced at Russia. His expression was smooth and serene, impassive to the waking world as his chest gently rose and fell. With the utmost amount of care, America fleetingly touched his index finger to Russia's lashes, attempting to brush away the trace of snow that resided upon them. The slight glisten refused to be moved, and Russia hardly stirred beyond the twitch of an eyelid.

Curling his toes sleepily, America continued to mindlessly stroke Russia. He had felt so warm the other day when he had hugged America's bare torso. America reasoned that, on account of how cold the room itself was to begin with, Russia had merely _seemed_ warm. America shook his head, the memory of heat was nothing more than a mere trick of the mind.

The clock's numbers blazed a red message of midnight when America looked to them. He regarded the information with a certain suspicion. It had been only half past ten the last time he checked, which had been when Russia had joined him on the bed. Their little back and forth couldn't have taken up more than a quarter of an hour, and surely his internal debate about Russia's mental and physical health couldn't have gone on for so long. Then again, it'd gone on long enough for Russia to slip into a relatively deep slumber.

America shimmied silently away from Russia, trying his hardest not to disturb him as he stood. He wouldn't be spending another night in Russia's bed. He'd started to become too comfortable, he knew that without a doubt. Never before would he have been so docile and willing to spend time with Russia. Never before would he have been able to while away the hours petting his captor, as though they were close, mutual friends, content to be in one another's presence.

Pausing at the door, hand hovering over the light switch, America gave Russia one last glance. With his body sprawled across the sheets, clothes unchanged from the afternoon aside from the loss of his boots, he had the appearance of an overworked and exhausted man who had not the energy to crawl beneath the sheets. A pang of distorted guilt rapped against America's conscience.

He wanted Russia to be under the covers. It was unnecessary, he presumed, considering Russia had admitted to having no real understanding of heat as it did not affect him, but the obtuse nature of the sight continued to scratch away at America. While Russia wouldn't be nice and cozy beneath a thick layer of blanket, there was the chance he would at least be slightly less chilled.

That was all the reasoning America needed to pad back to the bed and begin to work the sheets back. He drew away to cobble together a plan of how to go about maneuvering Russia beneath the covers. He debated waking him up, but figured that wouldn't be of much help to either of them. He was a firm believer in letting sleeping dogs lie, especially when they looked so at peace. Maybe he could roll Russia to the side, finish pulling the covers down, and roll him back before tucking him in. Except he couldn't manage a way to make that work outside of his head.

In the end, after much useless flailing, hemming, and hawing, he opted to firmly yank the blankets from beneath Russia, as though he were trying to rip away a tablecloth without upsetting the assorted plates and silverware that pinned it down. For a moment he held his breath, eyes fastened on Russia's face, waiting for a sign that he had been woken by the act, but the sleeping man did not stir.

America pulled the covers back over Russia when he was sure the other would not wake. He thoughtfully tucked the sheets all the way up to Russia's chin, unaware of the gentle melody he was humming as he did so. His eyes continued to watch Russia, even after he had finished setting the blankets back. A lazy glaze descending on his vision as his eyes lost their focus, and he had to blink several times before getting it back.

"Sleep well, you big galoot." America gave Russia a singular pat on the head. It didn't feel like enough to him, though. There was something missing from the bedtime ritual; the age old goodnight kiss.

Glancing around, America fully expected to find a third party watching him. When none appeared, he quickly leaned down and pressed his lips in a chaste kiss against the milky white skin of Russia's cheek. His lingered for longer than he should have, the coolness of Russia's flesh mildly surprising, and almost refreshing, in its unusual temperature. He wondered if Russia could better understand warmth when it was pressed up against him. America was quite sure that if someone yelled right in his ear, even if he were to be underwater, he could understand them, so it didn't seem farfetched that Russia could feel heat in particularly close quarters.

Resolving to add the question to his growing list to ask when the time was right, America decided he had done all his bedtime duties and made to retreat, flicking the light off as he went. He gingerly opened his own door, wrinkling his nose at the bitter cold of the interior. He went for his dresser first, pulling out another shirt to go over his first. Bundling up was in order if he were to sleep in his own room tonight.

His next stop was the closet, hoping to find a forgotten blanket or two in the dregs of the space. He scrounged together a few stray wash cloths and one tattered linen, but found nothing more to aid his sleep. America carried on in his search of the closet, doing his best to ignore the bleary film that was consuming his sight. He floundered about for a few minutes more before deciding that he'd take Russia's extra coat with him. It wasn't like he was wearing it, after all.

Marching back to bed with his haul in tow, America threw the blankets upon his mattress. He admired his dirty work in the bright light of the moon that spilled across the floor. Seeing that everything was in order, he pulled his arms through the sleeves of Russia's coat and dived under the covers, burrowing beneath them with a certain sleepy vigor.

America tossed and turned restlessly as he attempted to attain the most agreeable sleeping position, settling in the end for a gangly pose that could turn any circus contortionist green-eyed with envy. His eyelids fluttered shut as he allowed his mind to wander, skimming the line between sleep and wakefulness.

Despite the cold of the room, America found himself relatively comfortable beneath the covers, and, while not toasty by any means, America doubted he'd be kept up by the cold once again. Russia's coat had proven itself worthy of being substituted for a blanket, though the length of it had become interwoven with America's legs, winding like insulating serpents. Ready to resign himself to sleep, America breathed a deep sigh of relief, a delightful smell tickling his lungs as he did so.

America sat up immediately, his arms flopping bonelessly into his lap as he sniffed the air like a dog. The distinct scent of vanilla was infused in the air. It was a far cry from the stifled, chemical scent America often found labeled as vanilla. His shoulders slumped sleepily as he fell back on the bed, still snuffling.

A subtle pinch of cinnamon trailed on the vanilla, warm and comforting. With his mind weighed down by the need to rest, America sluggishly pondered the source of the smell. He was sure he'd have heard Russia if he got up and cooked up a midnight snack or stirred a soothing drink. He pawed at Russia's coat, pulling the collar closer to his cold nose.

The coat smelled strongly of the sweet scents. America's eyelids snapped open, as though he would be able to see the aroma emanating from the coat. He nuzzled against it, indulging in the wonderful fragrance of the fabric, his eyes sliding shut once more, satisfied to have found the source of what had interested America's senses.

Allowing himself to revel in the stolen moment of comfort he had snatched, America was lulled to sleep by the placating smell of Russia's coat and the low howl of the wind outside his window. So deep was the slumber that he did not wake at the whimpering creak of the door hinges, nor did he register the added weight as more blankets were laid upon his body. The sole thing that stirred him, and only for the briefest of seconds, was the cool touch of a reciprocal kiss against his cheek.

* * *

A/N:

-HELLO. Do you have mixed feelings yet? Yes? _Good._  
-Also, why is this ending so fluffy? I don't know; I don't usually write fluff, so it came out of nowhere.  
-To those who thought America would skip right into the music shop to tell Russia to get a move on, you should probably let the government know you're a psychic. "But Rose!" you may say, "He didn't."  
Yes, that's true, but originally that was exactly what he was going to do. However, the night I was writing the beginning of this chapter I got food poisoning, and while curled up on the bathroom floor with a pillow and blanket, under the delusion that I was sharing my body with seven different people, I decided things really could not go off so smoothly. Also, by the time you read this, it's been at least two weeks since I had food poisoning, so I'm all better now.

-Anyone who points out typos gets a free scooter.

-Lastly, I want to apologize for how terrible I've been when it comes to responding to reviews. I am seriously sorry and will do my best to be better about it!


	11. Chapter 11

America's bed undulated, rocking back and forth like a schooner on the waves. His mind, still halfway stuck in slumber, saw nothing wrong with that. The light pressure on his arm was much more interesting, and so was the incessant, but not wholly irritating, murmur that filled his head. With a languid yawn, he reveled in the pleasant wisps of his dream, the roll of his bed─ or was it his body?─ growing stronger as the seconds slipped by, the gentle murmur reaching an unignorable clarity.

"America, as much as I would like to indulge you in your slumber, if you refuse to rise the day will pass without you."

"Get out of my dream, bub. My head is off-limits," America growled weakly. Leave it to Russia to pop up in his subconscious.

The pressure on his arm increased, the rocking becoming a steady shake. America swatted at it, trying to brush it away. His hand connected with the source and he instantly recoiled. It was impossible to feel physical sensation in dreams, but the touch was so _persistent, _and whatever America had come into contact with was quite real indeed. A low whine building in his throat, America hauled himself upright and opened his eyes. The world before him was a blurred mess.

"Either my vision got worse or my glasses took a hike." America nearly smacked himself in the face as he checked to see he was still wearing his spectacles. "Where the heck are they?"

"It is unwise to sleep with them on," returned Russia, who nonchalantly pressed the folded frames against America's palm. America quickly affixed them to his face.

"If I didn't do a whole lot of unwise things I wouldn't be half the nation I am today." America scratched at the inner corner of his eye, dislodging any residual sleepy-dust. With his vision improved, he gave Russia a quick once-over. He looked the same as always, broad-shouldered and at ease, though he wore a blue and white top with many stripes in place of his coat. "Also, did you seriously come in here, take off my glasses, and then wake me up?"

"I took them off last night after you fell asleep."

America took a moment to process the words, averting his eyes to the covers, staring at them with a growing intensity. He was pretty sure he there hadn't been so many the previous night, and suddenly they all seemed very warm. Kicking them aside, America made to roll up his sleeves, ready to get down to the business of generally waking up. He froze in the middle of the action, realising in one terrible, heart-stopping instant that he was still wearing Russia's coat. Russia, however, seemed wholly unperturbed, reaching forward to help America with his task.

"I can absolutely explain why I'm wearing this," America sputtered, doing nothing to stop Russia from helping him. "It was cold. Seriously, _way_ cold."

Russia held up a hand to hush America, his other pointing to the bedside table where a steaming mug was idly sitting by."I do not mind if you wear my coat, America. I already share my home with you, why would it be a stretch to share my clothes with you?"

"Heck if I know, but uh─" America leaned over and cupped his hands around the mug, bringing it to his lips and pausing to watch his reflection shimmer in the dark liquid. "This is coffee, right?" The thick, enticing scent of roasted beans registered in his mind as he sniffed at it.

"Black coffee."

America brightened. He always took his first cup of coffee of the day, his 'serious' cup as he thought of it, black. It was like a swift kick to the pants, a real solid way to wake up. Any cups after that could be spruced up with milk, cream, and sugar, but they were mere drinks to sprinkle throughout his day. Taking a hearty gulp, America flashed a dazzling smile of thanks at Russia.

"Really hits the spot, buddy." America nodded in approval and took another sip, his mind wandering back to the previous night. "Have a nice sleep?"

"The best I have had in a long while." Russia smiled fondly and straightened the sheets a bit. "And yours?"

"Pretty darn swell if I do say so myself." He watched Russia smooth the wrinkles from the bed. "I don't think I even woke up, to tell you the truth." He nibbled on the mouth of the mug, his words a thoughtful mumble, "Did that thing last night blow over?"

"The situation has improved," Russia admitted, "but I have spent the entire morning attempting to make further progress." He caught America's eye, his lips curling into a knowing smile. "It would appear they had been trying to call me throughout the night, though. It turned out the phone had been tampered with."

"Wow, that is some crazy stuff, let me tell you." America went back to staring at his coffee. "You should probably have someone come check it out, electronics can be real tricky like that at times. Electromagnetic flares, sun spots, general atmospheric tomfoolery. All prime suspects in phone failure."

Russia laughed at America's quick, rather unsound, reasoning. "I am sure it will not happen again," he said coolly. "Right?"

"Right," America said sheepishly, legs restlessly kicking beneath the sheets as his stomach gave a low growl.

"Is my little bird feeling a bit peckish today?" Thoroughly amused by his choice of words, Russia grinned broadly as he stood, the bed rising as his weight was hefted from its springs.

America threw back his head and downed the rest of his coffee before following suit, taking great care not to trip himself up in the length of Russia's coat as he followed its owner to the kitchen. America stared at Russia's back as he went, nearly hypnotized by the repetitive white and blue horizontal stripes that lay across his top.

The pattern itself was slightly dizzying, yet very familiar. He stared at the shirt until it no longer fully registered in his mind, instead becoming a simple beacon he was content to pad along after. Only when his feet slapped against the bland linoleum of the kitchen floor was America snapped from his fashion-induced trance. In an instant he was at the coffee maker, whistling a few short notes as he poured his second cup of the day.

Russia pushed a small bowl of sugar cubes across the kitchen counter and America hummed his thanks, plopping a handful of the confectionary treats into his mug before darting to the refrigerator for some milk to add. As he made to pull the carton from its place, America's eye caught on a small jar of jam they had purchased at the store. He snuck a glance at Russia, who was silently watching him, his grin having faded to a simple smile.

"Have you eaten lunch yet?" America questioned with a suspicious quirk of his brow.

"No, I was hoping you wouldn't mind eating with me." Russia moved behind America to peer at the fridge's contents as well, but America ducked and bobbed, blocking his view.

For reasons America couldn't quite explain to himself, whether it be to ensure Russia's pleasant mood, or to simply give back some of the kindness he had been receiving, he decided he would serve Russia up with a nice, home-cooked meal. Or at least lovingly prepared with his own fingers. It didn't exactly take much talent to slap together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Shooing Russia over to the table, America set to work. Like a lion protecting his downed prey from a vulture, America shielded the necessary ingredients for the sandwich with his body. The butter knife clinked and dueled with the jam jar as America heaped large, fruity globs on a piece of bread. Soon the jam was all but smothered by a layer of creamy peanut butter, as though America were trying desperately to hide a body.

Setting to work on the second sandwich, America repeated the process, though this time he messily lopped the crusts from the bread. Tossing the knife into the sink with a loud clatter, America took a plate in each hand and strode to the table, his head held high with culinary pride. He set the first sandwich in front of Russia, reserving the crustless one for himself.

"And what, may I ask, is this fine American cuisine?"

"Only the staple of childhood lunches, made by every mother _ever_. It's a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, made by yours truly, and I'm a real grand master at this sandwich stuff." America nodded his approval at the plates.

"That is very kind of you to cook for me, America." Russia raised the sandwich to his pale, smiling lips, and took a curious bite.

His eyes brightened slightly at the mix of flavors, making no gestures or noises to indicate he found the taste to be unfortunate. America grinned proudly and dug into his own sandwich, happily munching away, hardly aware of the jam that stained the tips of his fingers and fell to the plate. He stifled his chuckling as best he could as he watched Russia struggle slightly with the consistency of the peanut butter, working like a dog to keep the nutty paste from sticking to the roof of his mouth.

A satisfied sigh slipped past America's lips as he finished eating, settling a hand on his stomach and giving it a few satisfied pats. "Was that good or what, buddy?"

Russia dotted the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "It was certainly a new experience, thank you for being so kind as to share it with me." He rose and made to gather the plates, but America beat him to the punch, batting his hands away before snatching the plates himself and darting to the sink and setting to work on washing them.

With a light bump from his shoulder, Russia forced America to step aside. "America, you are a guest in my house. I will do the chores."

America turned the faucet on with a sharp flick, the rushing water crashing angrily to the metal basin of the sink. "You're going to have to run that by me again," America said over the noise, scrubbing furiously with a soapy sponge to clean as fast as possible. Russia begrudgingly relented, his arms crossing over his chest as he watched.

When everything had been cleaned, dried, and returned to its original place, America was struck with a certain uselessness. Making lunch and tidying up afterwards had been his singular contribution to the running of the household since his arrival. Beyond that, Russia had cooked every meal, done any and all cleaning, and generally worked endlessly to maintain the large home.

"You really have to give me something to do," America announced, scratching at his chin in thought.

Russia leaned against the counter, his eyes moving along the ceiling as he nodded. "Could I interest you in exercising with me?"

America's muscles sang at the idea of stretching his legs again, and so soon at that. "That's right up my alley, buddy. When can we hop to it?"

"Does half an hour sound good?"

"That sounds better than good, that sounds amazing." America bounced on the balls of his feet with excitement.

"I shall see you then, America. And─" Russia placed his hands on America's shoulders, stilling him for a moment as his violet gaze flicked from head to toe several times. "I must say, you look very handsome in my coat."

If America hadn't been so happy to get out of the house again, he might have been bothered by the comment. Instead, he laughed and graciously accepted the compliment with a smile before bounding off to his room, nearly tripping over himself on the way there, but altogether pleased with how well his day was progressing, even if he'd had a late start.

Leaving his pants, shirt, and Russia's coat in his wake, America ran to the bathroom, hardly bothering to shut the door as he fiddled with the shower's knobs, impatiently shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited for the water to warm. Soon he was under the steaming jets of the shower head, whistling a patriotic tune as he rinsed his body of the previous day's grime.

America shut the taps off as soon as he had deemed himself relatively clean, toweling off hastily as he went back to his room, unmindful of the watery trail that followed him. He collected the garments he had shed so readily as he went, balling them up into a heap, save for the coat, and proceeding to throw them into a clothes hamper. The coat was re-hung.

America scouted his room for a moment, eyes settling on his unmade bed. With unsure steps, he approached it, lifting the pillow to peer beneath it. The crossword puzzles were still there. He stared at the book for a long moment before picking it up, flipping through the pages to make sure he hadn't imagined its completed form. It had not reverted back to its mainly blank pages.

America carded a hand through his soaked hair. Today was going to be a good day, not one filled with headache-inducing mysteries and questions regarding personal sanity. Shaking his head of the reality he could not yet understand, America hid the book again, this time within the pillow's casing. Even if Russia made his bed, America was sure he would not be found out.

America smiled to himself, though the act was weak and wilted. He went to the dresser and rifled through the clean clothes. He thought of Russia's shirt, with all its dark, uniform stripes. He couldn't shake the idea that he'd seen it before, its pattern struggling to manifest itself in a memory that had long since faded. He pulled on a dark pair of sweatpants and snapped his fingers absentmindedly, moving to the bottom drawer. The striped shirt refused to leave his mind. It didn't help when he found one mixed in with his tops, either.

America pulled it from the neatly folded and stacked clothes and held it before his eyes. He could recall seeing it before now, just a few days previous when searching for something warm to wear, but it didn't ring the right bell he was looking for. Even before finding it in his drawer, before ever even coming to Russia's house, he knew he'd seen it somewhere. It haunted his mind and clawed at his memories. He pulled the shirt on over his head and frowned. It'd probably come to him in the middle of the night, glaringly obvious in the way that only things remembered in the dark were.

Brushing a few damp locks from his face, America began to stretch lazily, his body forming graceful arches and deep bows as he loosened his muscles. Russia knocked on the door as America took up jogging in place, keeping his brisk pace as he went to the door and opened it, greeting Russia with bright eyes and an eager tip of his head.

Russia looked at America for a long moment before speaking, the corners of his lips quirking up, his eyebrows following suit soon after. In a smooth sweeping motion his gaze took in America's outfit, drinking in his appearance. America self-consciously ran his hands over his midsection, imagining that if he tried hard enough, he could hide himself like a zebra using the stripes of his shirt, fade into one discernable mess of colors.

"I must confess I am rather enjoying your taste in clothes as of late," Russia remarked as he stepped aside, his words breathy and amused.

"What can I say, I'm a fashionable kind of guy," America returned somewhat warily, his back too stiff and straight as he passed Russia, his gait equally over-controlled. He forced perkiness into his voice when he spoke again. "Anyway, how 'bout we hop to it? What are we even going to do today? Sprints? Long distance?" He strode past a window, the scene it held bringing him to a stop.

The world outside was filled with white, an icy gloom descending on everything. Pale fog obscured any kind of visibility, the only readily apparent movement the steady fall of snowflakes. America shivered at the sight and pressed the flat of his palm on the glass, suppressing a sound of shock at the chill that kissed against his hand. The snowstorm had rolled in and made itself at home.

"Russia," America said quietly, his eyes never moving from the window. "I am _not_ going out there just to do some jumping jacks."

Russia laid a hand on America's back, giving it a reassuring rub before his touch trailed down America's spine and came to a rest on the small of his back. America shivered again, though not from the cold scene he was watching.

"I would never subject you to such temperatures," Russia calmly assured him. "I have everything we need inside."

America cocked his head to the side. "Like an exercise room?"

"Exactly." Russia gently steered America from the window, guiding him down the hall. America went back to mindlessly touching his shirt as he moved. It was surprisingly warm, on top of being comfortable, and he concentrated on the softness of the fabric instead of the prickling heat on the back of his neck as he was led.

America halted when he realised Russia was leading him to a door with a gaping hole were the knob should have been. He recognized it immediately as where he'd run to in his first escape attempt, only to violently hurtle down the stairs. While he'd been too caught up in a jumbled mess of burning adrenaline and numbing pain to recall the layout of the basement, he was sure there'd been no treadmills or stairmasters waiting to be conquered.

"Would you like to be carried down the stairs?" Russia mused lightly, flicking on the light switch.

The room below them was bathed in a pale, fluorescent light. The desk no longer remained in the room below, the sole reminder of the incident being a few dark splotches that stained the faded carpeting. America reared back instinctively at the sight, but the hand on his back held him still, the light bite of nails pressing against his skin.

"I don't feel much like exercising anymore," America said truthfully. Russia's touch slid from his back to wrap around his waist as he began to slowly descend the stairs, taking America down with him one step at a time. "I mean it, Russia." America struggled half-heartedly.

"Why are you so frightened, my little bird? You are acting as though I am going to harm you." Russia laughed and tightened his grip on America, and though the action was clearly meant to be comforting, it did nothing but further unsettle America.

"I'm not scared," America sniffed, pushing his glasses up his nose. "But I can't help but find the fact you're taking me to a completely empty room, save for blood stains, _my_ bloodstains at that, to be a little on the freaky side."

The conversation evaporated after that remark, though America was sure he heard a soft laugh. At the bottom of the stairs, Russia spun America around, pointing beneath the steps. A doorframe stood hidden in the empty space beneath them, open and awaiting their entrance. He hurried ahead, the floor beneath his feet shifting from thin carpet to flat concrete that matched the walls, changing the room before him into a solid, concrete cube of sorts.

America stood in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame to steady himself. Aside from the all encompassing grayness, there was nothing particularly unusual about the room, though it was sparsely furnished. In one corner was a weight training bench, a rack affixed to the head of it held the rod of a barbell.

To the side rested a dozen stacks of weight discs, ranging from what looked like minor inconveniences to ones so huge and solid they would have made any bodybuilder cringe. A few hand weights and a single kettlebell huddled together in a small, inclusive clique. Across the cramped room was a stationary bike, positioned before a dusted television. Unlabeled tapes sat atop the TV, like so many rectangular hats. There was no exercise equipment beyond that.

America went to the bike and swung a leg over the seat, as though he were mounting a horse. He had been hoping for more, but he wasn't about to look a gift-horse in the mouth. Gripping the handlebars, America set to pedaling, realising belatedly he had never stopped to put on sneakers. If Russia mentioned it, he'd pretend it was on purpose.

Metal clinked against metal as Russia attached disc weights to the barbell, apparently set on getting some weight training under his belt. America kept his eyes ahead, silently willing the screen of the television to flicker on and a provide amusement so he wouldn't be forced to talk to Russia. It was not to be.

"Are you feeling well?" Russia asked.

"Good enough, I guess." America pedaled more fiercely, the magnetic resistance making a smooth and consistent groan as America quickened his pace. The noise rose, howling like strange, man-made wind, transforming into something bordering on a low alarm. It efficiently drowned out any and all conversation Russia attempted to make.

America concentrated on the bike in its entirety as he broke out in a sweat, wishing it had spokes so he could clip a baseball card to the wheel and enjoy the _thwap thwap thwap_ of the flicking cardboard. The repetitively endless noise of the wheels was instead rather calming, an audible reminder of all the excess energy he was expending. He was glad to finally be able to stretch his legs, having inwardly resolved earlier that if he didn't get an opportunity soon he'd be forced to expend it in his room, mainly with his fists.

Swiping the back of his hand across his forehead, America continued on, standing on the pedals as though he were biking uphill. His mouth became parched, his dry tongue fruitlessly flicking across his lips as he panted lightly. He debated running back upstairs and snagging a bottle of water, but he wasn't going to give in first. The only way he was getting off the bike was if Russia collapsed in an exhausted mess, silently admitting that America's level of fitness ranked above his own. America turned his head to see how his competition was holding up. There was no one in the room aside from himself.

His legs slackened at that, his pedaling coming to a slow halt as looked around, halfway expecting Russia to have snuck up on him. But there was nothing but the cold walls and the smothering dampness of the basement to provide company. His dismounted the bike, lips tugging into a confused frown.

"Anyone home?" he called, padding out of the room and up the stairs, nearly colliding with Russia, who was currently in the process of descending them.

"You seemed rather engrossed in your activities, I did not want to disturb you," Russia calmly told him, squeezing by as he continued down the stairs. America caught sight of a few water bottles in the crook of his arm.

America followed him like a dog, quick on his heels. "Can I get a drink?" he questioned, hands already grabbing for a bottle. Russia let him take it without resistance, watching silently as America threw back his head and downed the majority of his water in one breath. With a quick smile of thanks, America trotted over to the TV, treating one of the VHS tapes as a coaster as he sifted through the rest.

Most of the videos carried nondescript covers, bearing images of boring landscapes or run of the mill military scenes. On had a chipper young man servicing an airplane, another checking the oil of a car. America assumed they were instructional videos and balanced them back on the TV.

"Got anything worth watching?" America teased, looking over his shoulder at Russia, who was lifting the barbell at an unhurried pace.

"The History of the Telnyashka," Russia said lightly, doing another repetition. "It's already in the VCR."

"Very cool," was America's only comment as he turned the TV on and hit 'play'. He didn't know what a telnyashka was, but it sounded manly, rugged, and not unlike a mythical beast.

It was not a documentary for a preposterously cool monster, but instead a very boring video about a very boring shirt. A shirt which America happened to be wearing. His jaw slacked as his cheeks burned red, eyes fixed on the screen as scenes of military men sporting the top with pride flashed by. His hands quickly went to the TV, mashing at the buttons franticly until the images were wiped away by blackness.

Russia chortled to himself, and America instantly rounded on him, hands balled into fists. "Shut your trap, buddy. I wouldn't have put this─ this _thing_─" America gestured at the shirt as though it were repulsive in appearance "─on if I had known what it was."

"There is no reason to be upset, America. Even if you are not terribly fond of your shirt now, that does not stop it from looking good on you."

"Oh, please." America rolled his eyes, his pulse beat in his left ear, loud and misplaced. "Like I'd buy that."

"And you know it's comfortable."

"I guess."

"And warm; don't you think it's nice and warm?"

America laughed in spite of himself, his anger fading as Russia listed the admirable traits of their striped tops. "You sound like a pitchman trying to pawn this puppy off as the Holy Grail. It's just a shirt."

"You're right. That's all it is, nothing to get worked up over."

America blinked owlishly as he processed Russia's words. He'd walked right into that one. Russia sure had a knack for diffusing heated situations when he wanted to. "That was sneaky, even for you. But I have to admit, you can be real clever when you feel like it."

"I could say the same to you," Russia said, slowly lowering the barbell to his chest with a deep breath.

America smiled, wide and toothy, at the comment. It was nice to have someone appreciate his well-hidden genius, even if it meant acknowledging their own first. He hopped back on the stationary bike, his shoulders slumped with momentary contentedness as he took to pedaling again, though at a more leisurely pace that allowed for conversation.

Russia made no move to take advantage of the relative silence of the room, continuing instead with his weightlifting. America tapped a beat out against the handlebars, eyes glancing to the ceiling as he thought of conversational topics. Politics were out of the question, though he had no real interest in bringing them up anyway. He was behind when it came to the news of the outside world as well, so that was off-limits. The only halfway interesting thing America could think of had to do with fire, and since he had nothing else, he ran with it.

"I set my tie on fire once," he quietly informed Russia, his tone casual.

Russia paused in the middle of his repetition. "Excuse me?"

"I took a lighter to my tie. I think you can figure out what happened from there."

"You're lying," Russia told him, prim and curt as he set the barbell back on its rack so he could sit up, resting an elbow on his knee as he stared, the usual confidence held within his gaze marred by incredulity.

"I am not. It was a few months back, I'll admit that, and there may have been a bit of drinking on my part, but Canada told me he thought it would be real hard-like to set yourself on fire in this day and age. So I borrowed a lighter from the guy on the barstool next to us and proved him wrong."

"Were you injured?"

"Russia, that is the wrong question to ask. You should be saying, 'Was it awesome?', and the answer is yes, yes it was."

Russia rubbed at his temples for a moment and sighed.

"Hey man, no need be jealous. Not everyone can do such exciting and manly things," America chided playfully.

A bark of laughter echoed in the room. "You think _I_ have no dangerous tales under my own belt?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Once," Russia started, his grin wide and smug, "I jumped out of an airplane without a parachute."

"You did not," America countered. He'd heard the story several times before, scoffing each time as it grew more grand and improbable.

"Your lack of belief does not make the event any less true."

"Tell me a better story, one that actually happened."

Russia's expression turned pensive, as though weighing whether or not he wanted to divulge his personal exploits. He stood and walked to the front of the bike, fingers winding around the handlebars as he leaned forward until America could feel his breath flicking against his ear. He stopped pedaling.

"I kidnapped a man once," Russia purred, so close America could hear the mere movement of his lips, shaping every syllable and enunciating every word. "And got away with it." He pulled back with another barking laugh after that, the noise maddening.

"You are cruisin' for a bruisin', buddy." America flushed deeply. "That story is bologna, too. The ending is all wrong."

"Last time I checked, my sweet little sparrow, no one had a hint as to where you'd gone." Russia reached forward and cupped his hand against America's cheek for a moment before beginning to stroke his skin softly. America instinctively flinched but did not pull away, knowing from experience that the sweet nature of his appearance was inviting to the touch, and thankful for how the cool flesh of Russia's palm doused the heat in his own cheeks.

America studied Russia's expression carefully, taking in the gentle smile on his lips, the soft twinkle in his violet eyes. The look made the witty words on his lips falter and he soundlessly mouthed them. His cheeks burned more brightly than ever before, the cooling touch no longer calming them, but instead aiding in their rosy blush. The gentle sensation of lips against his temple caused his heart to thump thunderously in his chest, outraged that it was not allowed to leap from his throat.

The light flickered in time with America's pulse for a moment, and the both of them looked to the bulb. It steadied itself in a final stand, struggling to maintain its dim glow with a valiant effort before expiring, making not a sound as blackness ran down the walls until America could not so much as see the man standing before him. Russia pulled away, and America struggled to fight against the pleasant agitation that had filled his stomach like so many fluttering butterflies, warm and jostling.

"This is bad," America said to himself, not at all thinking of the lack of light. "This is seriously, majorly bad."

"A power outage is nothing we cannot handle," Russia assured America in a fond tone. "And do you think I would not be prepared for such events?"

After America had bumbled his way up the stairs after Russia with a minimum amount of toe-stubbing and tripping, he had retreated to his room, brushing off any invitation to spend any more time with Russia until he had to. He scurried straight to his dresser and pulled on a much more patriotic shirt, one emblazoned with red stripes as opposed to Russia's blue, one with a screaming eagle swooping in a ridiculously over the top fashion. America was rather satisfied with it.

He looked around the room for something to do, something that would be so involving that he would be able to clear his mind of the clouded heat that stifled his thoughts and thrummed through his veins. Being around Russia really wasn't good for him. While unable to pinpoint it, America was sure their relationship had changed from seemingly-immortal enemies to a casual sort of acquaintance that was very nearly bordering on a pleasant friendship.

He shivered at the thought, worrying his bottom lip nonstop, eyes glaring hard at absolutely nothing as he mulled his predicament over. Russia seemed satisfied with the changes that had come with having America in his home, but his little whisper was a bitter reminder that however much freedom he pretended to bestow upon America, he'd never get the real thing.

America's hands settled on his hips as he cocked his head to the side, taking in the room in its entirety. In comparison to Russia's own, it was nothing more than a mockery of a lodging. Simply four walls and a few pieces of furniture masquerading as a living space. He debated owning up to Russia that he'd really prefer a new one. But it had grown on him in an odd sort of way, like an ugly painting one is forced to look at every day until they find one speck of value in it. At least in here, he was safe from Russia at night.

It wasn't a half-bad room, really. Just neglected. America was sure he could easily bring it up to speed, maybe give it a slight bit of semblance to his own pad back home. Needing an activity to wrench his mind away from Russia and fill his hours before nightfall, America eagerly set to work on revamping his room.

He snuck out the door like a thief, eyes casting about in all directions, only too aware he could be easily caught. Judging the coast to be clear, America scurried throughout the house, picking bits and pieces from the rooms he peeked in on, most of them musty and disused with a sullen, empty air despite their furnishings. Snatching trinkets and baubles from each area, America familiarized himself with the layout of the house, creating a mental image in his head of which seemed most likely to provide him with an escape route or general hiding place.

It was on his fourth─ or was it his fifth?─ round of the house when his new found knowledge came into play. The creak of old floorboards warned him of Russia's approach before he saw him. America, having been in a staring match with a pitcher plant in the foyer, debating whether or not to take it, already had the advantage of being immediately shielded by the corner in which he was contemplating. He dropped to his hands and knees with a muffled thump and crawled behind a couch.

A brazen curiosity taking over him, America could not help but sneak a look, his blue eyes gleaming with interest as they peeped from behind the overstuffed upholstery. He could not stop the embers of admiration from stoking as he watched Russia pass through the foyer, his steps strong and unhurried by time, unaffected by what occurred around him. It was, to America, as though an ancient tree had simply uprooted itself and decided it would walk about.

Even after Russia was gone, America continued to stay behind the couch, lost in quiet debate over whether or not he could imitate such a confident and self-assured gait in place of his own awkward, gangly trot. He'd grab a full length mirror from one of the rooms and use it for trial purposes.

In the end, his muscles aching with a satisfying soreness, America stood back and took in his finished room. The entire experiment had resulted in a terrible mess. It was as though each bit of furniture was an ingredient in a recipe, something that would have been grand and enviable if correctly put together. But somewhere along the way America had added a large helping of side tables when none were required, easing them together in a single substitute for a desk.

A portrait leaned against the west wall where America's TV waited at home. A robust fern sprawled in the corner, wild and alive in its surroundings, having been chosen over the pitcher plant, as America had no idea how to properly feed it. A smudged mirror stood guard beside the door.

America saw very clearly his mistakes in decorating, but no matter how much he reduced or rearranged, the damage was done, the recipe completed. He found it not wholly unpalatable, and rather enjoyable in a way that reminded him of a smorgasbord, eclectic but enjoyable. And so what if the wood floor had a few gouged out marks in it now? The important part was that his bed and dresser were now exactly how they should have been at home. He had created an imperfect but suitable replacement.

The dulling light that shone from beneath the door faltered momentarily as America inspected his handiwork, changing and shifting, a shadow casting itself into the room. America sniffed and shuffled over, already aware that Russia had come to crash the party. Or to tell him dinner was ready. They both equated to the same thing for America.

He opened the door only a few inches, as though he were expecting bad company and wanted to keep them out of his house. "Can I help you?"

Russia craned his neck, switching his weight from foot to foot as he tried to make out what America had been up to. "Yes, you can. I heard you moving about in here, and you'll have to forgive me, but I have grown rather curious as to what activities you have been involving yourself in."

America opened the door a fraction more. "Promise me you won't be mad." It was a residual habit from spending too much time with England, always dreading he'd upset the other man with his antics.

"I promise you I have no intention of doing such a thing." Russia attempted to shoulder his way in, but was easily rejected, watched by wary eyes until America decided he could trust him.

For a moment, only the ticking of two clocks America had nicked filled the room. Their beat was unsynchronized and would have been a nuisance if America was not so keen for a noise beyond the sound of his own breathing throughout the day. And then Russia's laughter lanced through the air, smooth and rolling like a low rumble of thunder.

"This is cute," he proclaimed warmly, giving America a hearty pat on the back. "I am glad to see you adjusting to your new home, I was starting to fear that maybe I would lose you to madness."

"What? You thought I was going to lose my marbles? I'm a tough nut, buddy, it takes a lot to make me crack." America bumped his hip playfully against Russia's and slung a friendly arm over his shoulder. He hid the spark of sadness that flared at Russia's lack of faith in his sanity with a chipper tone and warm chuckle.

"I am sure it does. Now, I do believe we should eat before it gets too late." Russia snuck his own arm around America's waist. Unwilling to shy away from the touch in case he pressed up against Russia, and unable to lean away from Russia with the result of indulging the touch on his waist, America did nothing but allow himself to be guided to the kitchen.

Russia relinquished his hold, although somewhat begrudgingly if the glimpse of the expression America saw was anything to go by, and opened the refrigerator door. He ducked his head and stared at the contents it held, the small light refusing to cast its light. The electricity was still out.

"What is it you would like to eat, America?"

"Eight pounds of cereal."

"What would you really like?"

"I'm an honest man, Russia." America thumped his chest with pride. "Also, we should probably use up the milk before it goes bad."

Russia drew back with a gallon of milk in his hand and shut the fridge door with a nudge from his foot. "That would be wise, yes, but seeing as how cold it is in the house, I doubt we have much to worry about in the way of food spoiling."

America snatched two bowls from the cupboard and a box of cereal before nodding in understanding. He'd been straining to hear the breathy noises of the heater throughout the house, hoping that it had not been defeated by the lack of electricity. He eventually came to accept that it was not to be, but at least the insulation throughout the rest of the house was not so bad as to make the temperature unbearable, and by being constantly active throughout the day he'd warded off most of the chill. At least, if Russia's words were anything to go by, America had been right to assume that Russia could feel variations of cold.

"Think you can keep up with me, snowman?" America questioned cheekily with a wink lost in the dwindling light of the room.

"I would venture to bet I can hold my own." Russia had turned back to the table, and the swift strike of a match snapped, followed by the hiss of fire springing to life as Russia lit a candle.

"Shine that light on me, buddy."

"Is that any way to speak to your host?" Russia slipped a finger through the sterling silver handle of the candlestick and brought it to the counter, holding the flickering light up so that America could pour himself a large bowl.

"Right. Would you _please_ shine that light on me?" America said, sarcasm riding on his breath.

"Such a pretty word when it comes from your mouth," Russia remarked airily, causing America to look to him. "A lovely twist of the lips in its pronunciation, and such a beautiful voice that speaks it." He licked his lips as though he were hungry to taste the noise. America's tongue flicked out to mirror the gesture, but it was quick and nervous.

"I'm not letting you have any cereal if you're going to be like that," America told him sternly, his hands quivering slightly as he poured Russia's bowl. He rooted through the cupboards again for two tall glasses while Russia poured the milk.

They settled at the table with their bowls and each with a glass of quickly concocted rum and coke, America's with a bendy straw in place of a festive and miniature umbrella. The candle sat between them, sectioning the table into two clear halves which they both respected. America munched on a few milk-laden flakes and twirling his spoon, occasionally glancing at Russia, expecting conversation sooner or later.

Russia's expression was completely impassive, long shadows dancing along his pale skin, altogether creating an ominous visage. America bit thoughtfully on his straw, mouthing it gently. He watched Russia from beneath his lashes, batting them every so often, his inadvertently flirtatious behavior aiming to draw attention. Russia did not take the bait beyond surreptitiously enjoying the show, sneaking an occasional glimpse, but never locking gazes.

"Hey, Russia?" America questioned casually, sipping on his drink. "Isn't this a nice dinner I made for us?"

Russia smiled kindly and reached over, breaching the invisible divide of the table to lay his hands over America's. The contact was cool and welcome, like a wetted cloth held to a fevered mans forehead. "You want something, don't you?"

America squeezed his hands in a friendly manner before throwing his head back with a laugh that clinked and tinkled like the ice in his drink. "Am I an open book or what?"

"To an extent. Now what is it you'd like?"

"D'you think we could, just maybe, move the stationary bike to my room?" America lowered his head shyly, and in an instant he could see it in Russia's eyes, the reflecting reluctance to haul the heavy machine upstairs. "I'll help you with it, of course," he hastily added.

The reluctance flickered and died, replaced with a glowing fondness. "I don't see any problem with that," Russia said warmly, and there was his foot, crossing the unspoken and unseen barrier to fondly brush against America's shins. America's feet were soon fighting back, fencing their way into Russia's territory, giving friendly little jabs at his legs as he sucked down his drink and, almost hesitantly, slipped his hands from Russia's so he could finish his cereal.

America basked in the low light of the room, the comfortable ambiance and their leisurely, childish back and forth beneath the table. There was no suffocating judgement with Russia, as there always seemed to be with other nations. No complaints regarding his overall behavior or mere existence. It was just him, Russia, a bit of rum and coke, and ridiculously large bowls of cereal. All while in the middle of a snowstorm. There was no chance of interruption, responsibility, or being reprimanded, and America liked it that way. He liked it a lot.

"You know," America said, more to himself than Russia. "It's not half bad here."

Russia perked up, the whites of his eyes showing in his surprise. "It's not?"

"Nope, not half bad at all."

* * *

A/N:

-Alfred, how could you wear Ivan's clothes? Way to play nice with the enemy.

-What is a telynashka? Let Wikipedia explain:  
"A telnyashka (Russian: Тельняшка) is a dark blue and white striped, sleeveless or not, undershirt worn by sailors of the Russian Navy, the Soviet and Russian Airborne Forces (the VDV) and the Russian Naval Infantry (Marines)."

I'd link to a decent photo (the one on wiki makes my eyes hurt), but since this site doesn't allow that, well, you'll have to venture out on your own.

-If you point out typos we will be best friends forever _even if you don't want to_. You should point out typos, it's your patriotic duty (somehow).

-Romance/relationship jazz starts in the next chapter _oh noooo_. Won't it be fun?


	12. Chapter 12

America wasn't sure how he'd ended up on the floor. There was a vague recollection of attempting to slink back to his room for the night, to bask in the new belongings he had so carefully snatched from throughout the house, but then things went wrong. It started when Russia grabbed his wrist as he made to leave, he was sure of that much.

There had been an offer to spend the evening in front of a roaring fire, and America could find nothing wrong with that. It seemed an appropriate way to spend a stormy night. He'd taken the sheets and pillow from the bed and arranged a sort of nest before the hearth as Russia coaxed the flames to life. Somewhere along the way his bottle of rum had joined the fun, and couch cushions had ended up on the floor as a kind of makeshift bed.

Russia had been above sitting, or really laying, on the floor with him. He'd taken to an overstuffed chair upholstered with deep red shades and sturdy wooden legs, high-backed in a way that reminded America of a royal throne. America rested on his back, marveling in a warm haze at how much more comfortable his temporary bed was than the one he regularly slept in.

"What's on your mind, big guy?" America asked. He'd been watching Russia for some time, but had gleaned no insight into what Russia might be thinking.

"Does your chest ever hurt?" Russia asked in a voice so small America at first thought he had misheard him.

"My chest?" he double-checked.

"Yes."

"Um, no, not really." America cast a curious glance at Russia, finding that he had sunken back in the chair as he rubbed at his own chest, making steady circles were his heart was, as if trying to massage a pain away. America's lips hovered over the mouth of his bottle, sipping at it as he contemplated what to say. "I take it your heart doesn't feel so hot?"

"It certainly feels strange," Russia divulged, his hand stilling as he stared into the flames. On his face settled a distinctly distressed expression, though America himself has no idea how he can be sure of it. The changing shadows that waxed and waned revealed a man who was caught up in confusion. America rose to his feet with a buzzed wobble and stood before him, eclipsing the fireplace and becoming nothing but a black silhouette.

He leaned forward and gripped the armrests of Russia's chair, fingers dimpling the fabric. Russia could look nowhere but at him. "Don't be sad, buddy. Things aren't perfect, I get that. Heck, things have never really been all that great for you to begin with, but don't let it get you down."

Russia's shifted in his seat, legs crossing. "I do appreciate your concern over my emotions, America, but I never said I was 'sad'."

America's hold loosened on the chair. "Then what the heck are you feeling?"

"Strange."

"And kind of hurting?"

"Yes, but not necessarily in a bad way."

America cringed with his next words. "And maybe a little fluttery?"

"Very much so."

Turning back to the fire, America grabbed the poker. "I think I know what's going on then." He jabbed at the fireplace, the flames hissing and spitting as the wood they fed on shifted and splintered, glowing embers escaping up the flue in the commotion. America plopped back down when he was finished, but continued to grip the poker, its sleek black point turning a heated red as it rested in the flames.

"I think I do too," Russia agreed, sliding from his chair to the cushions with an audible thump. America's muscles seized as he strained to watch Russia from the corner of his eye. A bit more rum was in order, and with his unused hand he allowed himself a few more swigs, concentrating on the smooth burn that tickled his throat, and not how Russia was gradually beginning to lean against him. He was struck by the strange urge to spit a gob of liquor into the fire, if only because the resulting momentary rage of flames would probably change the subject.

Instead, America silently cursed himself for getting into such a situation, cursed himself for posing the questions he did to Russia, and cursed himself for understanding exactly what his captor was going through. There was no longer a flutter of dull fear in his heart when he saw Russia, but instead a weary sort of happiness. But it wasn't right, America knew, it couldn't be _real_ joy. Instead it was a twisted and devouring relief, like how a man buried beneath snow considers his deliverance to be that of the numbing ice that consumes pain and leaves him with nothing. And yet, the numbness was still welcome, as was the contentment Russia gave to America.

_But_, America reminded himself, _it's nothing to get worked up over_. Brains were weird, his brain was weird, brains did weird things in weird situations. Being kidnapped was definitely a weird situation. His brain would, of course, fix itself once he got out of this jam. And it wasn't worth dwelling on either. His brain was going to do what it had to do to protect him, and he could jive with that. For now.

The two of them sat quietly for awhile, America unsure of what to say, and Russia appearing to be satisfied with nothing but the popping of the wood as the fire feasted. America wouldn't have minded it either, but the silence was not a comfortable one. It was thick and awkward and stuck in his throat. He was sure he sensed Russia wanting to say something once or twice, a kind of preternatural knowledge from being around him too long, but nothing ever came of his predictions. If America was going to be left to start their conversation, which had become a recurring theme in the household, he was going to start talking about whatever he wanted to, regardless of the tensions it could bring up.

"So what's going on out there?" America questioned, prodding again at the blackened logs.

"It is snowing."

Rolling his eyes impatiently, America tried again. "You know what I mean. What's going on in the world?"

"It is still turning."

"Don't play games with me, Russia. No one can find me, they're flipping out by now. Heck, even England was phoning you up because of it." America's irritated tone sobered at the thought, and he gave himself a quick, reassuring hug. "Did you ever even stop to think about how this might affect him, or anyone else for that matter?"

"Has anyone else ever stopped to think about how I feel?"

America frowned and turned to look at Russia. His eyes were dull and impassive, garnering the far-away appearance that always accompanied his less endearing moods. America decided not to press on, but neither would he drop the subject. He had time, he had all the time in the world. Everything was a waiting game now, and he'd strike when ready.

Metal clattered against the floor as America dropped the poker, his hands held up in surrender to the conversation for the time being. But the poker stayed in the fire, an unassuming weapon ready to be brandished at any moment. He looked again to Russia, who was no longer leaning on him and had taken to staring bleakly at absolutely nothing.

Twenty minutes later, America was stuck in an unending loop of frustration. Both from Russia's refusal to tell him anything of the outside world, and from his ridiculous talk of how his chest happened to be feeling. The latter was particularly bothersome.

"Man, why did you have to go and say that?" America grumbled. But Russia had no response, having remained in the present, unaware of what America's outburst was related to. He passed it off as some kind of inner turmoil.

America hit the butt of his palm against his temple, trying to knock every confusing thought from his head. He found himself almost hoping that Russia would pipe up with something creepy and downright unsettling to give him something new to think about, give him another reason to remind himself that Russia was not his buddy.

If only life could be so black and white all decisions would be easy. America wanted everyone to fall into simple, clearly-defined roles that could not be argued with. He would be the hero, with his strong sense of justice and drive to protect others. Russia would be the bad guy, forcing his desires on others and wreaking havoc.

But in the end, wasn't that what America did as well? He had made mistakes. A lot of mistakes. Mistakes that cost the lives of innocents, mistakes that strong-armed others into adopting similar lifestyles and political systems to his own. There was too much gray area to declare himself a force of good, and he knew it. The same went for Russia as well. He'd had his good times and his bad times. His bad times just shined more brightly, while America had a cultivated talent for hiding his own indiscretions.

America stretched his arms above his head and yawned. All this thinking was getting him nowhere in a real rush. He looked to Russia, as though expecting something monumentally more interesting to have taken his place. But Russia was still the only one with him, idly sitting by, attentions devoured by the fire before them.

America's eyes locked onto Russia's for awhile, watching the reflected flames in them before moving onto his lips. They had a gentle upward curve of their own accord, a pale pink that reminded America of coral. An unusual but interesting shade that looked curiously touchable. America shook his head and sniffled. _Nothing_ about Russia was touchable. Kidnappers weren't touchable, unless you were slapping a pair of handcuffs on them. And America still didn't fully understand why he of all people was the one that Russia decided to pluck off the street.

No one kidnapped another for the sheer thrill of it, or to hone their talent. Kidnapping wasn't a craft, a leisurely hobby for those with the time. It had no clubs dedicated to it, no magazines or conventions. It was an uncommon activity with uncommon reasons that mostly bordered on the insane. Russia's seemingly long dry-spell of sanity kept him from the majority. He had his moments, of course, but for the most part he had acted a gracious, somewhat normal host that had no intention of plucking out eyeballs or making America a human guinea pig. The idea that he'd lock America up for the sheer heck of it, just to have someone to hang around with, was absurd. He wasn't keen on extracting information, but there had to be a purpose behind this whole mess.

He could be waiting for something to blow over, a kind of political change that would have driven America up the wall if he knew about it. Once everything had calmed down and there was no way to turn back the wheels of time, Russia would give America the boot. America sniffed at the idea. He wouldn't allow Russia to throw him out when it was convenient for him. America would endear himself to Russia if that was the case, make him regret thinking that he could hand off America as he pleased.

And it wasn't like there was much to go back to at home if Russia really was planning some kind of upset. His ant farm was most definitely dead by now. Not that he felt bad about it. They were ungrateful little insects, not bothering to build monuments in his image no matter how many times America pointed out that the box they came in dictated this to be their favorite activity.

America covered his face with his hands and let out a weary breath as he realised what he was thinking about. He was lost. So very, very lost, and the only guide he had would lead him deeper. Ant farm or not, he was going to get back home. If Russia merely wanted him to stick around for a few weeks, all the better. Staying wasn't an option.

"Why are you hiding your face?" Russia asked, his voice soft and curious.

America peeped from between his fingers. "Because I feel like it." Had Russia always been sitting that close to him?

The cushions made a quiet, scuffing noise. Without looking, America knew his question was useless, because he was sure Russia had moved closer the moment he'd shut his eyes again. He stole another glance, reaffirming his suspicion. Russia had scooted away when America had been questioning him earlier, riling him up, but now he was making his way back, edging closer like a vulture cautiously waiting for injured prey to expire.

"Don't think I don't notice you sneaking up on me like that," America said, dropping his hands from his face.

Russia looked momentarily startled, but almost instantly turned the observation to his advantage. "If that is the case, I will not attempt to 'sneak' any longer." He abruptly closed the remaining sliver of space between them, his shoulder rubbing up against America like a friendly cat.

"You're kidding me, right?" America's cheeks flushed red, a reaction which he blamed on the heat from the fire. "Is this supposed to be cuddle-hour in front of the fireplace or what?"

"I suppose so." And there was Russia's arm, snaking around America's waist as though that was its natural place, calm and confident.

"Well it's not," America announced, though he made no move to dislodge Russia's grip.

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

"But not enough to back off?"

Russia didn't answer that. He simply tightened his hold, treating America to the strange sensation of being pulled closer while remaining exactly where he was. There was no point in resisting Russia. America could shrug him off, but the arm would come back. Russia was too headstrong to take 'no' as an answer if it wasn't what he wanted. Even if told off he'd manage to get back to his old tricks in a matter of time, disguising them as fleeting touches until America let his guard down.

America didn't feel much like fighting Russia off, either. He was glad to be able to bathe in the heat that radiated from the flames, his belly full and happy, a comfortable, mild drunken veil shrouding his anxieties. It was strangely pleasant to be sharing it with Russia. At least he _had_ someone to share it with.

He closed his eyes and hummed a little campfire song to himself, yawning again and bobbed his head in a drowsy rhythm. So what if Russia was making himself cozy? It was nice. It was wrong to sit so close to him, to let Russia touch him in any way, shape, or form, but America was beyond caring for the night. Every time he tried to think about it, things got worse, he trapped himself in confusing bouts of logic that got him nowhere. Best to let everything go for the moment.

And why shouldn't he indulge in what Russia was offering him? He was lonely, and Russia was lonely. Plus America was going to lose his marbles if he didn't get some attention of the physical kind soon, even if it came from an undesirable source that was possibly, maybe, not so undesirable after all. At least Russia was _nice_ about it, never bringing to light that America never really resisted much.

America inwardly scolded himself. There he went again, thinking too much. Thinking too often led to trouble, it was best to focus on the situation, focus on how lovely life was, if only for this small, sanctioned moment. So he did that.

He lingered on the small details around him, the smoldering smell of the logs that crackled pleasantly, the warmth the flames they gave off. The soothing manner in which his hair was being repetitively stroked by a firm and gentle hand, the softness of the fabric pressed against his cheek. America blinked, his eyelids heavy and unmanageable

The fireplace was sideways. The whole _room_ was sideways. And yet the world looked very right on its side. As did the placating petting that continued on. Things slowly came into focus as America continued to blink. His body had definitely found a way to sprawl horizontally since the last time his eyes were open. Automatically he made to clutch the pillow and give it a few satisfying pumps to fluff it, but instead he felt soft flesh give way beneath him.

America snapped upright. "Whoa now, partner," he sputtered. "Pretty sure I didn't start off there."

"But it is where you ended up," Russia told him sagely.

"Yeah, well, I never really asked for it." America ran his hands through his hair. "Was my head just, like, in your lap?" was not what he meant to say, but the barrier between his thoughts and tongue had been temporarily disrupted.

"Yes."

"Oh, okay," America said in the calmest tone possible. His brain acting out of line was one thing, but if his body was going to give in so easily he was going to have to have some stern words with it. But for the moment, he was too busy fighting back the surge of want his body was assaulting him with, demanding he return himself to Russia's touch.

"I hope you are not upset over it, but you nodded off and merely slumped over like a little rag doll. You looked so at ease I could not bear to wake you."

"I'm sure," America mumbled absently. He was too busy feeling like a twelve year old boy with newfound and confusing hormones to really listen to Russia.

America had always been free with his affection, even as a small child, but something about touching Russia, being touched by Russia, short circuited his brain. All at once his heart was racing like a horse out of the starting gate. He was confused and tingly, hot and cold. It had become harder and harder to shove his strange emotions under the rug anymore, and they were starting to peek out from under the carpet.

"I think I need to go for a walk. Get some fresh air." America stood and made for the door, his own feet snaring him in his haste. He had to get away from Russia.

"America," Russia warned, rising to his feet to follow, "You can't go out right now."

"Like Hell I can't." America took up a run, streaking through the hall and straight for the front door. He could hear the thump of Russia's feet as he pursued. "I'm blowin' this popsicle stand. I am literally─" America's fingers scrambled at the locks on the door. "─going to waltz─" He yanked the front door open. "─right on out of here."

A cold gust of wind slapped America in the face. A small mound of snow that had been building at the doorway slid inside, nipping at America's bare toes. He yelped in surprise and jumped back, colliding in turn with Russia's chest. Right. It was snowing out there. A storm, or something. America rubbed his forehead and blinked, adding 'Storming off after immediately waking up' to his not-to-do list.

Russia closed the door and calmly guided America away, taking him back to the foyer. America clumsily resisted, still dazed by sleep. At one point he found himself pressed up against the wall, his arms pinned at either side, and took it as a sign his resistance was a bit stronger than he had meant it to be.

"America, are you okay?"

A flush or irritation plied America's words from his tongue. "Russia, I am the opposite of okay. I am not even a little bit okay. I am the _antithesis_ of okay. This sucks, you suck, this whole house sucks. This situation? It sucks. And get your paws off me." He wriggled his shoulders to emphasize his point.

"I thought you said it wasn't so bad here." Russia released America, but instantly went to brush at his shoulder, as though he had meant to flick away some snow that had fallen there the entire time.

"I know," America agreed. "That's the whole problem."

Russia stared at America for a moment, his gaze intensely curious and uncomfortable on America's skin. He shifted awkwardly beneath it, trying to ignore the growing smile on Russia's face. And did he really need to be this close? Oh well. It wasn't too terrible, really. Not with the way Russia was sneaking his arms around America and pulling him close.

America lifted his arms above his head for a moment to avoid having them pinned yet again, this time to his sides. He braced himself to be crushed in Russia's hold, but was surprised to find the embrace exceedingly gentle. America always imagined a hug from him could never end well. It'd be like allowing a serpent to wind around oneself, standing idly by as it constricted. But it was nothing unusual compared to the other hugs America had received in his life. If anything, it was a pretty decent hug.

He dangled his arms lazily over Russia's shoulders. That madman always chose the worst moments to act like a human being. America wanted him to stay two-dimensional and evil, unable to be thought of fondly or sympathized with. But when he was being held so carefully, like a beloved object that could break at any moment, America could not find any fault in him.

"You will come to enjoy yourself in due time," Russia softly assured, running his hands up and down the length of America's back, mapping his figure.

_I think I'm enjoying myself a bit too much as it is,_ America thought, though the realisation was not a wholly unpleasant one. It was something that had been impatiently waiting at the edge of the mind, plucking away at his awareness for the past few days. It wasn't his fault if he _liked_ when Russia was nice to him. Everyone liked to be treated kindly, and he liked Russia, at least when he was nice.

America clasped his hands together behind Russia's neck, leaning into the hug. It'd been too long since anyone had held him so tenderly he thought he'd melt, or that his legs would buckle beneath him. He was pretty sure his knees were doing their best imitation of Jello-O just to spite him. But it was all very unimportant in comparison to how lovely he was feeling at the moment, though it was a little troublesome that the room was twenty degrees hotter, and that Russia's breath was flicking across his skin, hot and quick. He could still smell the faint whiff of rum on it.

America listened to the stuttering thump of his heart as it started, stopped, and jumped back to life. He entertained the fear that Russia would be able to feel it through their closeness. An agitated fire ate at America's stomach, consuming his senses and setting his nerves aflame. Even the barest touch made his blood leap and churn. He'd been yearning so long for touch that he was almost intoxicated with what he was given.

Russia leaned in close, too close, the lines of his face that distinguished each feature blurring.

_May I?_

America locked eyes with him for a split second before tilting his head ever so slightly and letting his eyelids flutter shut.

_You may_.

Russia's lips pressed against America's, soft and tender, caring and curious. The action was composed of nothing but the deepest care. There was no needy edge or lustful nip; no expectation beyond the sweetness of a single kiss. America indulged himself in the moment, his lips moving against Russia's with no thought of pulling away. His skin tingled pleasantly and flushed a rosy red as his mind scrambled.

America couldn't bring himself to stop. Russia's closeness was tantalizing, prompting his heart to shiver with contentment. His muscles slackened, the strength of his legs fighting to desert him. An electric current ran through his veins, ending only when Russia broke the kiss with a satisfied sigh, holding America against his chest and lovingly rubbing his back for a moment.

In the moments that passed next, America's wits came back to him. A cold dread settled in his stomach. He tried to cobble together a quick excuse, a smart response to why he'd let Russia kiss him, but he had none. All he had was a sinking embarrassment that was tinged with shame and an intense urge to hide his face in his hands again. He masterfully subdued it by wringing his fingers together in a rather painful and distracting manner. Anything to get his mind off the kiss.

His mind pleaded with him to run back to his room. To dive beneath the covers and hide his head under his pillows until a decade had passed and then maybe, just maybe, try to take on the world again. But he couldn't. There were no sheets on his bed, no pillows, everything had been moved to the foyer, set up so he could stay warm during the night. Escape was impossible. He'd have to play it cool, instead, assume an unaffected air as though their shared kiss was nothing more that the faintest of touches. America could manage, he _had_ to manage. His breath hitched in his chest as he started to panic a tad, eyes growing wide and unfocused as he found the gaping hole in his game plan. Russia would have to play along if this was going to work.

Russia was the unknown in his equation. Would he cooperate? America couldn't say for sure. He had no concrete understanding of how the man's mind even worked, but with how much time they'd spent together America fancied that he could count on Russia to do him a solid─ _No, no, no,_ America chided himself. His thought process had taken a wrong turn, cruised into the bad part of town, the part of town that thought Russia was a reliable, stand-up guy deep down. He back-pedaled frantically.

"Well, uh," America stumbled over his words, the tips of his ears uncomfortably hot. "It's getting late, isn't it? I think I'll hit the hay." _Forever._

Russia gave a single nod, clear amusement shining in his eyes, though his expression remained unperturbed. America scurried away quickly, ignoring what he thought might have been a few soft words. The fire had dwindled, reduced to a few struggling flames that clung to the logs. He snuck back into bed and settled himself, noting with grim acceptance how the room was turning from toasty to plain old cold.

Maybe his brain would freeze during the night. Not that he would notice anyway. It was already thoroughly busted, incapable of stringing simple thoughts together. Everything was a blurred, panicky mess in there, and he didn't have the energy to deal with it.

There was a light pawing at his shoulder, soft but relentless. "America?"

"Don't want to hear it," America mumbled against his pillow.

"But─"

"Whatever you're sellin', I'm not buyin' it." America curled in on himself like a kitten, forming a tight little ball that left his back exposed to Russia.

Russia sighed, the noise deep and downcast. He gave up patting America and stood to toss a few more logs on the fire. America expected him to return to his chair, but Russia instead took up post on the floor again. America shimmied away, getting as close to the fire as he could without endangering himself.

He felt a bit bad for Russia. The guy was, no matter what he pretended to be, some kind of mentally-ill oaf. He was doing better, sure, but he wasn't all the way there. America was oddly proud of how far Russia had come, from running around with a rifle and using it as a golf club, to merely being a touchy-feely weirdo. He didn't get a lot of affection while holed up in his house, and was probably so overwhelmed with how great it felt that he couldn't help himself.

As if on cue, the covers began to rustle and give as a hand attempted to creep beneath them. America hardly paid it any mind. Russia was probably going to steal some sheets for himself. But instead, he was surprised to find that Russia was actively trying to get, well, _something_. America didn't understand exactly what, but he seemed to have a specific object in mind, one that he was carefully searching for, his touch skimming over America's side, catching on his shirt for a moment before moving on. America was too baffled to say anything.

Eventually Russia found what he had been looking for, which turned out to be America's hand. He gingerly laced their fingers together, the gesture quaint and innocent. His skin was cool and smooth against America's, his hand steady and without a tremble. America feigned sleep, well aware that Russia could see past his act. Eventually, it no longer was.

* * *

America flailed sleepily, clumsily rubbing at his eyes, pleasantly surprised to find Russia had not taken his glasses from him again**.** He blinked his eyes slowly, savoring the warmth he had accumulated beneath the covers, the chilliness of the room nipping at his cheeks.

The fire had died in the night, blackened logs smoldering weakly in the pale light of the morning. America snuffled and wriggled about like a freshly-woken puppy. Beside him, Russia shifted almost imperceptibly. America looked over at him, his bleary, not-quite-awake vision able to make out the vivid purple of Russia's eyes. He appeared to be staring at the ceiling.

"Been awake long?" America asked, his voice husky with sleep.

"Not very." Russia reached over and gave America a good morning pat on the head, his hand having become disentangled while they slept.

"Good." America yawned and pulled the covers up to his nose. He felt much better now, his head clear and body rested. Last night was in the past now, a silent contract made between them not to speak about it. Or at least America hoped that was the case; it was too soon to tell.

A deep silence hung in the air, punctuated only by the occasional whistle of wind. America listened to the steady sound of his own breathing, idly syncing it with Russia's. He swallowed the cold guilt that rose in his throat, the guilt that reminded him not to get comfortable, the guilt that scolded him for not having his guard up. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that he was back at home, that he had decided on a childish whim to camp out in the living room, and that he was safe and sound inside. His mind refused it, acknowledging only the very end of the idea.

Russia rolled onto his side to face America, whose eyes flickered open of their own accord, instincts anticipating an attack. America bunched the sheets in his hands, fingers flexing thoughtlessly. He wasn't so far from sleep that he couldn't return to it, and had every intention of doing so. Russia laughed softly as he watched America punch at his pillow a few times to plump it up. America shot him a petulant look, but the intensity evaporated as he noticed Russia had no sheets of his own.

"Man, you can't just go sleeping on the floor in your day clothes," America informed Russia. It wasn't, to America, terribly odd to sleep in day clothes, as he did such a thing on occasion, but the lack of blankets got to him.

"I will have to keep that in mind." Russia was perfectly unperturbed, not shivering in the slightest.

"Stop being dumb and get under the covers." America threw some of his sheets at Russia as though he were casting a fishing net. Russia slipped beneath them before America could blink, though he made no sly attempt to snuggle up. America smiled meekly in appreciation.

America went back to fighting with his pillow, struggling to knead it into form. As the final step in his pillow-plumping process, he flipped it over and gave it a shake. His book of crossword puzzles fell from the casing, and America's hand shot out in an instant to grab it, tucking it under his stomach in a vain attempt that Russia would notice nothing wrong.

"Ah, I've been looking for that." Russia's voice was warm and appreciative. "I should have known you'd managed to find it."

"Well it is mine, after all," America snapped back. "I filled it in and everything."

"Did you now?"

America pulled the book back out and thumbed through it quickly. "Yep, all right here." He pointed at the pages.

"And you recall writing in the answers?"

America cheeks burned with a nervous flush; how did Russia know about that? "I totally wrote them in, it's just kind of fuzzy." America worried his lip as he thought about it. There should have been at least the dimmest memory, but he had nothing. "I bet you were around when I did it, that's why I can't remember. It'd be too hard concentrating with you breathing down my neck."

Russia looked unconvinced that his mere presence could cause memory loss.

"Stop that. I know what you're thinking, **'**Howdy Doody, that boy is crazy.' Don't even go there. I am fit as a fiddle, I have the mind of a _hawk_! No wait, that's vision, isn't it? Hawks have bird brains. Anyway, I have the mind of an extremely intelligent animal, that's the important part."

"Which is still the mind of an animal nonetheless."

"C'mon, Russia. Let's not start this. But, uh─" America studied the pages and furrowed his brow. "─just when _did_ I do this again? I mean, I kinda remember. But it's wonky, give me a hand."

"Give me the book."

"Give _me_ a hand."

So Russia gave him a hand. Just the physical kind, the kind that tried to snatch the puzzles away. America had no appreciation for the gesture and quickly rolled away, shoving the book back beneath himself to protect it. "Fat chance you're getting it back, bub."

Russia didn't give in so easily, instead proceeding to awkwardly attempt to wrestle it from America, who fought back as best he could while protecting his underbelly. Only when America attempted to bite him, in the way that particularly rowdy children will at times, did Russia let up, at least physically. Mental assaults were a whole different story.

"I will tell you when you finished the book once you give it back to me."

America balked. "I _just_ said that two seconds ago."

"The offer still stands."

America mulled it over, lips down-turned in a childish pout. He wasn't buying it. "What's the catch? And if you say 'There is no catch' I will literally eat this book so neither of us can have it."

"You don't mean that."

America nibbled on one edge of the book. "Is that a challenge?"

Russia blew air through lips pursed with annoyance. America narrowed his eyes and shimmied away subtly, already anticipating the swinging pendulum of Russia's mood.

"America, I am doing my best to be amiable and offer you a fair deal." Russia didn't look at America, didn't look at anything at all. Instead he closed his eyes and set his jaw as though he were fighting very hard to keep his voice smooth and even.

"Man, a fair deal would not be yanking me off the street and stealing tons of my stuff. I can't believe you did that. I bet you don't even have a conscience. It's dead, dead as England's taste buds. I heard on cold nights you can sometimes hear its ghost walking the halls─"

"_America._"

"Alright, alright, don't get all worked up. I don't get why you won't tell me anything, it's not like I won't find out for myself in a few weeks."

Russia raised an eyebrow. "Planning something without me, are you?"

"Uh, no. I know what's up, Russia, I get why I'm here. You're pullin' off a big commotion, but if I was still out there I'd throw a wrench in the works, so you've got me holed up here until everything cools off."

America smiled smugly, waiting for the disbelief to rise in Russia's eyes, mortified at the fact that his plan could be figured out just like that. Instead, America was treated to a boom of laughter.

"A very cute theory, America," Russia managed between his chuckles. "But still incorrect." He reached over and tousled America's hair, as though he were nothing but a silly mutt who had inadvertently made a humorous spectacle of itself. "If that had been my plan, you would already be free."

In what he would later defend as pure reflexes, America hurled the book at Russia's face.

* * *

A/N:

-Is there anyway to put more space between those little horizontal rulers (like the one about this sentence)? I used one to distinguish the night turning to day, but I couldn't really space out the chapters so it looks too cluttered for my tastes. No lives will be lost if I can't change it, but I was just curious.

-If you see any typos, I'd love it if you pointed them out. My eternal gratitude will be yours, and my children will have your names.

- Thank you so, _so_ much for all the reviews. I was totally stunned with what I received from the last chapter, and I'm incredibly sorry I was unable to respond to all of you. You're all wonderfully kind and I know already said this but thank you!

- In the author's notes of the last chapter, I completely forgot to mention the posting schedule is changing. It used to be every Wednesday, but as chapters became longer I started needing two weeks to write them. The buffer of chapters I had has run out, which means that updates will be every other Wednesday.

-In the next chapter we finally get around to finding out what's going on in the outside world, oh boy!


	13. Chapter 13

In a show of impeccable manners, Russia had no reaction to being hit in the face with a book beyond a marginally forced smile that stayed clear of his eyes. America scowled, hardly believing that Russia could pull a decent political stunt while remaining almost constantly at America's side. He'd pump him for information just as soon as the mystery surrounding his book was explained. Russia didn't look like he was about to talk, so America took the initiative.

"I gave you the book, time to pony up the information."

"I do not recall our agreement specifying that using the book for─" Russia hummed for a moment, his eyes darkening. "─_injurious_ means was an acceptable way to return it."

America grinned a haughty little grin. "You never said I had to hand it over peacefully."

Russia's smile disappeared, and America watched with a smug sense of satisfaction as Russia's expression turned cold and calculating, mind working to find loopholes as America's had.

"That is very true, America," Russia finally conceded, fingers playing over the cover of the book.

"Stop stalling and get a move on, then."

Russia's lips twisted into something grotesque, nothing near what had been his previously feigned smile, but instead a self-assured grimace of sorts. America could hardly bear to look at it, but persevered for want of appearing strong.

"I think," Russia began, and America knew his tough-guy act really wouldn't hold up long if Russia was going to insist on using such a creepy voice, "that I could better explain the situation if we were to go to my room."

America was on his feet in an instant. Russia's room no longer held any kind of mystery or threat to him. It was four walls and a bunch of stuffy furniture, and he wasn't afraid to go charging in if it meant getting what he wanted. He was through the door before Russia had so much as gotten up, and by the time his captor had arrived, America was sitting on the bed, bouncing like an excited child.

Russia ignored America's fidgeting, opting to grab an extra chair from the chess table and lug it to his desk. He pulled an untidy stack of papers from a drawer, the one which had before held the gun, America noted, and let them fall to the tabletop. A quick beckoning motion was all it took to get America at his side and seated next to him.

It was only when America noticed that Russia had seated himself out of arm's reach that he knew things weren't going to go smoothly.

"Alright, let's get this show on the road," America prompted, hands eagerly rapping the desk, eyes squinting to make out the documents. Russia shielded them with his forearm and made a soft, displeased noise.

"America, you never wrote those answers in."

America's heart dropped to his feet as he let out a weak laugh, the sneaking fear that this would be another exercise in mind games coming to fruition. He rested his elbows on the table, head propped on his hands. Jumping through Russia's hoops was hardly of interest to him. "Russia, no one else has my handwriting. It's mine for a reason."

"But it can be imitated."

America's interest kindled. He'd struggled when he was a small boy to copy England's own script, forging notes that proclaimed he should receive special treatment. The endeavor had been a failure, though, his pudgy little fingers unable to reproduce the shapes he wanted, the Governesses suspicious of letters saying he should be allowed 'atey' pounds of 'sweetmeets' daily. Signing his own name on them had probably been a mistake, too.

Russia pulled America back to the present with a soft clearing of his throat. America blinked and looked to him. "Uh, yeah. Right. Handwriting, you were saying?"

Russia removed his arm from the stack of papers and pushed them towards America, the movement subtle and precise, like a robber pushing a stick-up note at the teller, carefully tailored not to cause a scene. America's eyes glanced over the first sheet, taking in a long row that contained only the letter 'a' written over and over again.

It was a foreign hand at first, prim and composed with precise, uniform strokes. Russia's, America reckoned. All at once they shifted, stark and abrupt. It was still the same letter, but its crisp lines bled to form sloppy, rounded edges and loose loops, gaining the lackadaisical appearance of America's handwriting.

America's blood ran cold as he flipped through the pages, lingering only long enough to register another letter of the alphabet, another process of watching his handwriting emerge, before moving to the next. After the letters had run out there were sentences, basic and inane in their nature, but in perfect mimicry of the writing America had become so familiar with, what he had identified as his own. Now Russia was taking even that from him.

"You're kidding me, right?" America asked curtly, anger dancing on his tongue. He reached the last pages, the simple sentences having moved on to paragraphs, and ending with letters. Letters addressed to other nations, those closest to America. The ones that would be most concerned by his disappearance. "What is this?"

Russia shifted in his seat, appearing to lean away, but his lips remained unmoving. America slung an arm over his own chair and slouched back, fanning himself with the papers he held. He kept a cool, unaffected expression as his blood simmered. But he couldn't keep the anger from his eyes, and Russia refused to look at them.

"Is this what you do all day? Sit around and try to be me?"

"A bold statement from a man who wears my coat," Russia retorted smoothly.

The usual deflection; exactly what America had been expecting. "How many letters have you sent?"

"A few." Russia shrugged, the movement a tense ripple of his shoulders. "Your friends were worried, I put them at ease."

America scoffed openly and rolled his eyes, the papers in hand shivering as his hand quaked. His leg jogged excitedly, matching his heartbeat as it thumped against the floor. The grinding of his teeth reverberated in his mouth. It was a betrayal, what Russia had done.

They'd had their tiffs, the occasional fist-fight, even a few low blows from time to time. But never this, never a planned act of ruining the other's life (or at least, America had never gone through with his plans). There'd been a line, invisible and never spoken, but silently acknowledged. Russia had not only freely stepped over that border, but dragged America back to his side as well.

"You're a sick bastard, you know that?" America informed Russia with a barely concealed snarl.

Another shrug, accompanied by a blasé tilt of a head. "In the eyes of many, yes. But I have good company." He smiled a false smile to match his false kindness.

"No way, bud. Pretty sure you're on your own in the whack-job department." America's free hand flexed into a fist a few times.

Russia was messing with him, doing his best to coax out a reaction that he could deem suitably upset so that he wouldn't have to continue, so he could hide behind America's mood as an excuse to keep his trap zipped. It was all an orchestrated play to him, one he both directed and participated in at once, though he left America in the dark when it came to the script, the setting, the scene. He was waiting for America to break, ready to swoop in and offer comfort, paint himself as the hero for once. America refused to give in. Even with red clouding his vision, hazing the edges, he wouldn't give up.

Instead, he'd strike while the iron was hot, draw out what information he could while he had the chance. America blew air from between pursed lips and closed his eyes fleetingly, struggling to subdue his anger for the time being. He was a good actor, hell, he was _famed_ for acting. He could pull this off.

The grinding of his teeth tapered off, the papers falling in an airy flutter to the desk as his hands moved to reside in his lap like shy animals. The continuous bounce of his leg faltered, slowed to a rare, flighty twitch. He lowered his head slightly, almost demurely, and let his shoulders slump. His whole body turned in on itself, small and unthreatening.

Russia regarded this with a certain suspicion, leaning forward in small increments to better observe the change. America bit his lower lip, turning his irritated worrying into a mild nibble. He read Russia like a book, focused on the small nuances of his changing posture. He wasn't buying it, not yet.

"But I'm still my own country and all that, right?" America expertly imbued his voice with a frustrated edge that tapered into a tame resignation. He knew what Russia wanted to hear, what sweet tones would disarm him. But didn't have to feign the curious lilt to his question.

Russia reached forward, his cool hand enveloping one of America's, squeezing gently. America swallowed the urge to lash out. Russia was testing him as though he were a riled animal he was unsure of, attempting touch to find if America was truly subdued.

"America," Russia coaxed, trying to catch his gaze. America kept his head ducked. Russia's eyes saw something more than they should, America was sure of it. Always looking a little too far, a little too deep. They'd expose him in an instant.

"Tell me what's going on," America insisted softly, the quiet before the storm.

Russia drew back, though his hand remained on America's, giving a swift, reassuring squeeze. America fought to keep himself from trying to reflexively squeeze back. "A certain... _situation_ has been achieved." He said it shyly, but with a certain proud edge, like a child informing a temperamental parent of an aced class, still afraid that would not be enough to satisfy them.

America stared at Russia's hand clasping his own, careful to keep his angry shiver from returning. "Care to cough up a few more details?"

"It will benefit us both."

The scoff had slid past America's lips before he could stop it, his docile facade beginning to crumble quickly. "Is that commie-slang for 'your ass is mine now'?"

"No."

Russia seemed unwilling to give any more information after America's fleeting outburst. His eyes raked curious lines over his captive's forms, still searching for a giveaway. America straightened up and wriggled in his seat, crossing one leg over the other before decided the reverse was more comfortable. Russia's touch stayed with him the entire time.

He wondered what made Russia tick, wondered what could have him speaking secrets as mindlessly as he breathed air. Puppy dog eyes were reserved for England, a needling, whiny voice for Canada. Drink, America had thought, was Russia's Achilles heel, but it was noticeably absent from his breath on the occasions he was close enough to check. Maybe it was a stereotype he played up, pretending himself a drunk so others would pay him no notice.

There was no deal America could lay on the table, no chips he could wager. Russia held the upper-hand, forcing America to form a sick dependence on him for information. The things that swayed Russia boiled down to tears, fear, and trust. All three of which America had no intention of ever showing again. The angel act wasn't getting him too far, but at least it wasn't terribly detrimental. Not counting the damage it doled out to America's pride. Deciding it to be the best plan, America fought on with dogged determination, assuming his complacent mask once again.

Apparently persuaded by the broody silence that had started to consume the room, Russia piped up again. "Think of it as a friendship, an alliance."

"If it was that simple you wouldn't be afraid to tell me."

"You would be upset."

America dropped his front and threw his hands up in the air, shedding Russia's in the process. "You've got to be kidding me. You're afraid of upsetting me? Look buddy, I'm already upset. I'm as upset as they get. I think you'd be pretty miffed too if political shenanigans were going on behind your back. Let's face it, I'm going to be peeved either way." He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I know I've said you're basically as bad as England, but I'm pretty sure you're plain old worse now."

Russia seemed unperturbed by the accusation. "How so?"

America's head lolled to the side. "At least he treats me like a ten year-old these days; you're stuck treating me like I'm five. I know things aren't so hot right now, I'm not _that_ much of an idiot. Seriously, hiding things like this isn't helping at all."

Russia hummed, though America couldn't tell if it was in agreement, or a prompt to go on. He ignored it in favor of standing to stretch in a silent signal he was done with their conversation. Russia held a hand up to stop him from leaving and spoke.

"It's more like a confederation of sorts." He said it out the side of his mouth, almost comical in his avoidance of the word.

America balked. An alliance he could buy, even be okay with. They'd been allies in the past and it worked out well enough. For awhile, at least. But a confederation? That assumed some kind of willingness on his part, on his entire nation's part, not to mention Russia's. It was something he could hardly fathom.

"I've tried this confederacy stuff before, didn't work out so hot."

"It will work out this time."

"I'll pass."

"You do not have much of a choice, America."

America fumed quietly, his cheeks puffed in a petulant pout. "You can act all nice-like to me, pretend we've got this whole mutual thing going down, but this is just like before. Snapping up little nations one by one, only you're slapping a diplomatic face on it now."

All too aware that he couldn't talk America down, Russia tried instead to placate his prisoner with a brief pat on the shoulder. America recoiled and wiped at his hand. "Keep your dirty mitts off me, y'stupid yeti."

"You will find in time that it is not so bad."

"Not so bad having you touch me, or not so bad having you screw around with my country? Both of those are pretty damn bad. I mean, c'mon, I've been here, what, two weeks? And you've pulled a helluvalot of stuff off already. You'll be taking over the world by next month."

Russia eyed America with startled interest.

The look spurred America into speaking. "What?"

"Two weeks?"

"Three at the max," America added, which seemed a good estimate to him.

A strange expression settled on Russia's face, a mix of relief and worry. America's stomach fluttered sickly, dread building in his throat, thick and choking.

"It is nearly April. March twenty-fifth, to be exact."

America's knuckles turned white as he balled them up. "Nice try, but it's not even February yet." But he could hear it in the calmness of Russia's voice, in the way he delivered the information without fumbling, that it was the truth.

Three months had passed with him in confinement and he hadn't even noticed it. Three months without him seeing hide nor hair of another nation. Three months of uninterrupted time with Russia that showed no sign of ending.

"You're a sick bastard, you know that?" America managed, his throat constricting the words, turning them into a mangled whisper.

Russia scratched the bridge of his nose, unmoved by the insult. "You are not much better."

"_What_? How can you even put us on the same level? You copy my handwriting and pretend to be me, you write letters in my place while keeping me locked up like an animal."

Russia made no move to calm America, though he did rise to his feet, overwhelming in his countenance. "I would think a sane person might try to leave."

America shoved his hand at Russia, the palm facing outwards to flash the pink scar that he'd acquired from his first escape attempt. "Been there, done that."

Russia leaned back against the desk, his arms folding across his chest. He gave a single nod. "That was an exception."

"Uh, no, no it wasn't. I totally bolted from your car the other day." Or maybe it was the other week. America wasn't sure anymore.

"And sat by the edge of the road, waiting for me to find you."

"The storm was coming." America's angered ebbed for a moment as he realised that the storm was recent, that his get-away act had only happened the other day. He still had a grip on time. What he had lost before was a fluke, nothing to worry about.

"Hardly an excuse. With your strength, if you even still have it, you could easily have broken down the door, or possibly even the walls that hold you." Russia tapped a forefinger against his chin thoughtfully. "I have come to suspect you prefer staying with me, seeing as how you can be left to roam the house freely without calling for help."

Russia's remarks stung America, hurtful as a physical blow. His eyes watered with anger, blood roaring in his ears. He did want to get away, he did. But every time he tried something went wrong. Always wrong. He was merely biding his time, waiting for the perfect time to pounce on freedom. It hadn't come yet, that was all.

As a general rule, America didn't hurt people. Not intentionally. But Russia was really asking for it, with his too-calm air and indifferent attitude. And to doubt America's strength like that! If there was one thing America hated, it was when others doubted him. It was an instant challenge to prove them wrong, and at the moment if there was anyone he wanted to prove wrong, it was Russia.

So he did.

America's first regret in punching the smile right off Russia's face was that he gave him a full serving of his strength when he had meant to give a mere taste, a simple sampling to remind Russia that he was still as strong as ever. It was over before America even realised what he was doing.

There was the balling of his fist, the split second where he pulled back to throw the punch, and then a very short moment of collision in which his hand became well acquainted with the side of Russia's face. After that he was suddenly aware that Russia was on the floor, and he wasn't exactly moving a whole lot.

That was America's second regret.

The third one came after Russia stirred, partially aided by America's repetitive questioning as to whether or not he was okay and a few wary prods. His eyes flickered open, dazed but clear, and he smiled again. His teeth were tinged pink with blood. America shivered and pulled back, an apology already on his lips, his anger all but replaced by shock.

Russia rose to his feet in a single fluid motion, the only betrayal of his dazed state a slight moment in which his expression blanked as he reached for the desk to steady himself. America nearly reached out to support him as well, but stowed it away with his unspoken apology. When he punched people, he meant it. Even if he didn't feel so great about it afterwards.

"I see I was wrong," Russia remarked, as though he had not just been knocked-out in one well-aimed punch, though he did hold his free hand to the side of his face, working his jaw as he did so.

"Could'a told you that five minutes ago," America said, sounding for all the world like a child who had acted out and was waiting for the backlash. He made to stuff his hands in his pockets, pretending to smooth his pajama bottoms when he found none. His eyes glanced about for something to latch onto.

"That begs a certain question, though, does it not?" Russia cracked his jaw, or maybe his neck─America didn't care to look─and sighed in satisfaction, having worked out any kinks resulting from the blow.

America flopped his shoulders in a shrug, well on his way to knowing exactly what Russia's question would be, and having no answer for it. It had been a question plaguing him ever since he waited by the road for Russia. He silently hoped Russia wouldn't have the nerve to ask it and stared down at his own feet with such intense interest that they may very well have belonged to another. It wasn't long before Russia's feet strode up to his, a cold hand cupping under America's chin to force his gaze upwards.

America struggled valiantly to look at anything but Russia, but the attempt proved futile. The vivid violet of Russia's eyes was all too alluring to his own, an irresistible lure to hook his attention.

"America," Russia said evenly, a spot of red blossoming at the side of his lip as droplets escaped his mouth, "as I have been so kind as to answer your inquiries, I think it only fair for you to answer some of my own."

America made a strange noise, something between a sigh of exhaustion and an anxious cough. "Can I ask just one more?"

"If you promise to answer mine."

"Deal," America answered quickly.

Russia paused for a moment, his fingers running along the underside of America's jaw before falling to rest on the junction of his neck and shoulder, thumbing the smooth skin again and again. "And you must promise to answer mine truthfully."

America hesitated, a grimace pulling at his lips. He conceded after a stark silence. "Fine, I'll be all nice and honest, but you have to be too. Also, I get to ask first."

Russia laughed, the sound deep and sweet, sending a warm shiver up America's spine that he couldn't suppress. "Be my guest."

"Great." America pulled himself up to his full height and stared Russia down as best he could. "Why in the Sam Hill am I still here?"

Russia leaned in close, his breath brushing against America's cheeks in even puffs, and in the split second before Russia spoke, America's stomach plummeted to the soles of his feet, knowing exactly what words would come next.

"And I wonder the same thing."

* * *

A/N:

_Gasp_. The truth comes out! Russia sure is a wily one, isn't he? And America, oh America. You little... American, you. Punching people, calling them by the names of presumably mythical creatures. Is there anything you won't do? Oh, right. Escape. (I'm terrible and need to stop.)

Okay, so, little schedule news here. I got a job recently, and it's kind of been consuming a lot of my free time, and then what little free time I have left is spent acting like a sleepwalker. What does this mean? Well, it means you can probably expect chapters to be on the shorter side like this one (in comparison to previous chapters), and sometimes maybe not being posted on Wednesdays. I don't quite know yet! Maybe I'll be able to keep making the deadlines. I certainly hope I will.

Anyway, thank you all very much for reading as always, and anyway who points out typos/grammatical errors has my _heart_. Honestly, I know it can be kind of nerve-wracking to point those things out to an author, but I want to let those who do or those who want to that I am _truly_ appreciative of it!


	14. Chapter 14

America sucked air through his teeth, cold and raw against his throat. Russia's words echoed in his mind, the same question he'd been both asking and smothering so many nights. _Why was he still here?_ It wasn't a simple question that could be answered with a few sparse words, its explanation stretched on and on and on to a point where America just couldn't voice it.

He licked his lips, surprised to find them dry, parched, alien under his own tongue. "Don't know what you're talkin' about," was all he could muster for the moment.

"Really, America? You want to play this game?" Russia's voice was cold and lilting, a pale eyebrow raising to compliment his question.

America gave a petulant shrug as his shoulders tensed, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He didn't want to get into this with Russia. "Still don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Well," Russia purred, dark and calm. "You will have to play alone." He leaned in close, nearly mouthing his next words against America's skin. "You are free to fly away any time you'd like, my little bird."

America reared back, a shiver running down his back. "As if I'm going to fall for that," he mumbled darkly, surging forward and ducking around Russia. "Not even likely."

Russia's laugh crashed against America's ears as he made for his room, hurrying him into a jog and softening only when a slammed door was between them.

America made a noise between a sigh and a growl in the back of his throat, thick and rumbling. He didn't allow himself to relax until he'd amassed a barricade in front of his door, listening with an ear against the wood for footsteps. Even then, he sat on the edge of his bed, fully expecting to hear a knock, or the shriek of splintering wood as it got a metallic mouthful of pipe. When nothing of the sort happened, America's thoughts began to overwhelm his attentions.

Russia had just given him carte blanche to leave. To up and walk out of the door, stroll on down the road and off into the day as though nothing were holding him back. Which was the problem. It wasn't like his own neighborhood, where transit was as simple as standing at a bus stop and having some spare change. He was stuck in the middle of Ice Station Zero and he hadn't seen another living soul, save for his single day out.

He hadn't even seen any animals, which put him on edge whenever he paused to remember it. There were no raccoons chittering and fighting in the night, no faraway howls of dogs calling out to one another, not even the low hoot of owls. In the daytime, he could find no squirrels as he sat at his window, and bird song was absent in everyday life. To dwell where not even animals would not did not give him much confidence.

No animals meant no nearby running water, not that America thought he'd find anything thawed enough to drink from. It meant no food to forage for; nothing he could use to sustain himself. The only thing he had going for him was a wrinkled rucksack he'd stashed under the bed, but it was empty save for a tin of cookies and two bottles of water. Licking his dry lips again, America fished his rucksack out of its hiding place. If he was going to make a plan, he was going to need a bite to eat.

An uncomfortably full stomach and one bottle of water later, America had no plan. A shower, he figured, was in order. He always had good ideas in the shower. So he shimmied out of his clothes and hopped under a stream of steaming water, fully prepared to be struck with the perfect escape plan. But when he did emerge from the bathroom, pink and slippery-skinned, there was a set of car keys waiting on his bed where his rucksack had been.

America approached them with suspicion, reaching out with a tentative hand and half-expecting an invisible thread to tug them away. He snatched them up for inspection, knowing full well they'd start Russia's behemoth of a car. He checked the door, hardly needing to look to know the barricade he had been made was shoved aside, the effort of it having left shallow gouges in the floor.

Russia sure was sneaky when he wanted to be.

America tossed the keys up in the air, staring with interest as they fell back into his hand with a jangle. He could pull on some clothes and head off today, if he really wanted to. Chucking the keys on his pillowcase, America went to his dresser, rooting through it for the warmest clothes he could find. Experiencing the strange sensation of one rooting through a stranger's drawers, America found himself squinting as he searched.

The clothes didn't much look familiar to him. Sure there were his neon-orange socks with the holes in the heels, and there was the faded gray undershirt he always wore when the nights were too hot, but where was the poorly-knit and inappropriately festive Christmas sweater England had knit him? Not to mention the hoodie Canada had given him, the one faded to a funny maroon by too many washes and too many wears, was nowhere to be seen. Of course, the striped little number Russia had given America was all but too easy to find. America threw it to the floor and kept on searching, so engrossed he didn't even hear the open and close of the door as he continued to paw through drawer after drawer.

He settled on an old pair of jeans, the ones England had patched up more times than either of them could remember. He let his fingers trail along the stitches with a certain fondness, a warm smile curving his lips. It dampened a bit when he pulled on the dinky little striped thing he'd earlier discarded on the floor, but he couldn't deny that it kept him particularly warm. He pulled on a pale blue sweater to ward off most of the cold and hide Russia's shirt. To top it all off, he made for the closet to grab his jacket, eager to feel the familiar warmth of its fur collar and worn leather. Russia stopped him with a gentle clearing of his throat.

"Need something?" America asked gruffly, not looking up to see just where Russia was. That was what Russia wanted anyway; attention.

"No, but I was going to ask you the same thing."

At that, America did look up.

Russia was sitting on his bed with a strangely serene expression. In his lap was America's rucksack, now oddly stuffed and lumpy, and he seemed to take great pleasure in petting it, as though it were a cat curled in his lap.

"What'd you put in there?" America questioned warily, pulling his jacket from the closet and looking to the door. He really should have put the barricade back up when he had the chance.

"Rations, water, blankets."

"Okay. Now what did you _really_ put in it?" Death adders, jumping spiders, and spitting lizards were America's guesses.

Russia repeated his previous response, opening the rucksack and offering America a look. America took him up on the offer, stalking closer and peering into the bag. It was just as Russia said, and America didn't like it one bit.

"Why are you doing this?"

Russia smiled innocently, his eyes bright and warm. "Doing what?"

"Giving me the keys to your car, makin' sure I've got lots of supplies. You know, all that stuff."

"To prove I am not keeping you here."

America cocked his head to the side before snatching up his rucksack, holding it to his chest like something precious. He still wasn't buying it, but if Russia was going to offer him the door, he'd see how far he could get. America wasted no time in stuffing extra clothes in what little space was left within his rucksack. Russia had managed to cram it pretty full, and had gone so far as to sneak a few candy bars in.

Hoisting the sack over his shoulder, keys dangling from his fingers, America clapped his hands and said, "Giddy on up, partner, you're coming with me." Judging by the way his neutral expression warmed with curiosity, America knew Russia hadn't been expecting an invitation.

The two of them dutifully trudged out to the dilapidated barn, America jumping with each footstep to cover as much ground as possible, Russia working at a leisurely stroll as though he were only fetching the newspaper. America yanked the barn doors open while performing a strange kind of dance, something born of happiness but also chill. While the snow had stopped, the temperature had seen no reason to rise. When the doors were open, America tossed the keys to Russia, who gave him a slightly perplexed look.

"I will not drive you to the airport," Russia said, a patronizing smoothness riding his words.

"Don't expect you to, just start that puppy up." America continued his shivering shuffle as he waited for Russia to start the two-ton beast, kept his eyes peeled for any possible explosions set to detonate when the engine warmed to life. His overactive imagination received no reward as Russia smoothly pulled out, sliding from the driver's seat to give the hood a fond pat.

"Well, shoot," America mumbled as Russia returned the keys and got behind the wheel. Rucksack filled with deadly creatures was a no go, as was booby-trapped car. There had to be something stopping him from leaving.

America's eyes narrowed as he looked over the dashboard. The gas was full, there were no inexplicable warning lights lit up, and the heater was working just fine. America made a beckoning motion with his hand and gestured for Russia to get in the car, who willingly obliged.

"I need directions," America said softly, begrudgingly. The way Russia grinned said he'd already known that. America made sure to get rid of it by pushing the pedal to the metal, the truck roaring to life as it lurched forward in a rush. Russia took the entire thing in stride, calmly buckling his seatbelt and proceeding to stare into the vast spread of white.

America wasn't doing so well himself.

Everything around him looked exactly the same. There was snow, lots of it, crunching under his wheels and licking the flanks of the truck. The tires seemed mostly to spin, rather than actually get him anywhere. The oncoming wall of trees did nothing to assuage his growing anxiety that this might all just be a bad dream. It certainly had the tense atmosphere of one.

"To the left," Russia prompted, clearly thinking America had every intention of ramming the trees head on. Which wasn't half wrong, seeing as how America was debating just the same thing, if only to see if he were still sleeping.

Instead, he slowed and looked to the left, skimming the thick wall of trees. There was a small patch where they thinned out, unnoticeable until he looked closely. America wasn't sure he could fit the truck through the clearing, but he gave it the old college try and managed to get through with a minimum of crushed saplings.

Beyond the clearing was another field of white, the same as the last, though the trees were off to the side, with nothing blocking America's path. The truck trundled along, America hardly bothering to keep it from sliding every which way. If he drove long enough, he'd get somewhere. Simple as that.

In the meantime, he watched Russia from the rear-view mirror. Or really, the bruise that was staring to bloom on Russia's cheek. He'd noticed it earlier, fleetingly, when Russia had been playing with his rucksack. It hadn't been so bad then, more of a light, questionable shade America associated with faded watercolors.

Now it was jarring and vivid. The mottled, intense colors of a lingering sunset, all deep purples and blues. With every glance America's gut churned. He really hadn't meant to hit Russia so hard. Not that he'd ever apologize for socking him one. Taking a page from England's book, America came up with the most roundabout apology he could manage.

"I shouldn't have really done that," he said under his breath.

"Done what?" Russia asked, but the amusement in his voice said he knew exactly what.

"That whole thing." America shrugged a shoulder at Russia.

"Ah, yes. That." Russia didn't sound particularly torn up over it. "It will not happen again."

"Nope," America agreed, slapping his palms against the steering wheel rhythmically. "Wouldn't dream of it."

The truck puttered along through field after field, and soon America was humming to himself to fill the silence. He'd stopped checking on Russia's bruise, he didn't think it was going to get better any time soon. Russia had to have known, when he was taunting America about his strength, that he could be on the receiving end of it. Russia always did plan ahead like that. Had that been his plan to begin with, to really find out if America still had the same power as before? That had been his question, but had it been a genuine one?

Well, he'd certainly gotten an answer.

"How much longer til we get there?" America bemoaned. He was already bored of thinking and driving.

"An hour. Turn left after that snowbank."

America floored it, bouncing around in the truck's cab as he sped along. "Make that forty-five minutes."

"Make that an hour and a half."

"Make that─wait, what? Why an hour and a half now?"

"Well, you said forty-five minutes. I thought we were making up times now," Russia said with the false innocence of the joking.

America rolled his eyes, but a small chuckle rumbled in his chest.

The sun steadily snuck its way between the clouds as America continued to drive. His mind warmed as the rays spilled into the car. His thoughts wandered, trotting easily along as he smiled to himself. Freedom. He was finally getting it back.

But it didn't feel well-earned.

Being free, yes. That was the important part. But America felt almost as though he'd been robbed of the victory, receiving the gift on a silver platter instead of fighting tooth and nail for it. He wanted to win it fair and square, not get it as some kind of pity prize or for whatever the heck reason Russia was handing it over for.

It was certainly odd that Russia had kept him locked up so long just to suddenly hand over the keys and kindly give him directions. He'd probably even ship America's belongings back to the States if asked nicely enough. The realization left a sour taste in America's mouth. He still didn't know why Russia had kidnapped him to begin with, not really.

Russia said himself if it was to pull off some political upset, America would already be free. Without that, America was at a loss for reasons. There'd been no attempt to pry secrets from him, blackmail him, or really... anything. No matter how he tried, America couldn't find the switch that had been flipped, the one that let him out. The only possible change was the fact he'd decked Russia. It seemed unlikely, though, that Russia was suddenly fearing for his health, especially with how he had started to hum along with America.

America cocked his head to the side, words slipping from his mouth before he could hold them back. "Are you kicking me out?"

"Why would I do that?" Russia settled back in his seat, the picture of patience.

"'Cause, like, y'know. I walloped you and all." America blinked a few times, eyes beginning to hurt from the unending onslaught of white.

"No."

"Then why?" America's foot eased from the pedal, slowing the car to a crawl.

Russia laughed to himself, the noise thick and full. His hand found its way to America's knee, gave a light, placating squeeze. He didn't answer America, though. Just picked up his humming again and let his hand linger. America played with the steering wheel as he chewed his lower lip until it threatened to bleed. He really didn't get it, and it was driving him mad.

It had to be the punch. There was no other explanation, he'd gone and messed up, so Russia was giving him the slip, figuring he could find someone better to keep him company and hang out with and do whatever the heck it was Russia did in his spare time. That was a still a mystery to America, which really didn't help.

Despite being locked up with the loon─_no_, not a loon, just a bit of an unbalanced man─America hadn't attempted to connect with him or befriend him in any way, even if it had happened naturally anyway. But the friendship was still new, lacking, not quite at the point he wanted it to be at. Not that he wanted to be buddy-buddy with a kidnapper, but these days, he was taking what he could get.

And what would he get back in the States? It was probably a good idea to find out about that too before heading back.

"It's different out there now, isn't it? I mean, the other guys haven't exactly been sitting around these past few months and twiddling their thumbs, right?" America ventured quietly, not really expecting a response.

"Correct."

"Okay, like, scale it. One to ten."

"You would be proud of your brother," was all Russia offered.

"Heck, I've always been proud of him. What's he up to these days, anyway?" A clumsy attempt at subtly.

"He surprises even me, I must admit. I thought he might step into your shoes, or at least attempt it, but I did not expect things to go as well as they have. He worries, though, like the rest of them, now that we are closer. And so he has become wary, despite his newfound spotlight."

"Whoa, hold up. He's wary of us? As in, me too?"

"Yes," Russia said, and if America didn't know better, he'd say it sounded almost apologetic. "They are all unsure."

America felt his drive crumbling with every word. Even if he came up with a decent excuse, it sounded like that was the least of his problems. The idea that Canada was now wary of him struck America like a physical blow, lingered in his bones like a cold ache.

America pictured the world he'd be coming home to. Everything he'd been told painted a strange, bewildering picture he'd never thought possible. A return to confederation days, the apparent absence of allies beyond Russia, and no one to lean on, not even his own brother. He was going to a world where he wasn't number one anymore, a world where no one trusted him. A world he didn't want.

America sunk back into his seat, shoulders hunching as he turned in on himself. He was already going back and he didn't have a story to tell. To speak the truth would be out of the question. It'd raise eyebrows and do nothing to help his relationship with Russia. America knew better than to cover for the galoot, but he had an undying belief that in all likelihood Russia didn't always know right from wrong. He was a big, lonely kid used to getting his way by generally looking dangerous.

So mentioning Russia was a no-no. America would have to think up a tale to tell and run through it for holes using only the time he had on his flight home. He ran through a quick list of common excuses. Not that there were many for disappearing off the face of the Earth.

He hardly went a minute before running out of options. He couldn't rely on the day-to-day excuses for not being around. Traffic jams, faulty directions, and his alarm clock not waking him up didn't account for months gone without so much as phoning anyone. Claiming to be kidnapped and held hostage until he initiated the lengthy tango of befriending his captor until being released hit too close to home. Being abducted by aliens was just something he wished would happen.

The more he thought about it, the less appealing that flight back was looking. Aiming to forestall his departure, America used the barely audible sound of Russia's growling stomach to form an idea.

"Lunch?" he proposed, though his appetite was absent.

"No, no, I would not want to keep you. I will eat after you leave."

America quieted; Russia was not to be swayed by food. America kept his tired eyes straight ahead, a far off road shimmering like a pool of water in the distance. He thought it to be some kind of mirage until a car zipped along it, quick and spunky.

"Uh, left or right?"

"Right."

America nodded and picked up the pace, his heart doing the same. His palms became damp and clammy as he neared the stretch of asphalt, and he pulled them from the wheel several times to wipe them on his jeans. He found that the closer he got to the road, the more anxious and jittery he became.

He still hadn't thought of an excuse for his absence yet. Not a good one, at least. Every scenario he ran through fell apart against his own questioning, and America knew that against the interrogation of others, his lies would be stripped bare. He chanced a glance at Russia, hovering on the brink of asking if he had any good ideas, but from the impassive, almost mask-like set of Russia's expression, America thought he might not have much to offer.

As the tarmac neared, America dwelled on the life he had now, and the one he would have in a dozen hours. One had endless amounts food and care, along with warm beds and late nights curled up in them, while the other was filled with confusion, an uncertain newness, and more responsibility than America was sure he could handle. It did have a boatload of freedom going for it, though.

Maybe he didn't have to choose. Or if he did, he could always change his mind. Russia had proven he was free to go, helped him along the way, made it clear America was allowed to skip town when the whim took him. And while America wasn't very keen on what was waiting to confront him back in the States, it would cool off after awhile. It had to.

Everyone would see that he and Russia meant no harm, that their alliance was only to protect themselves and not to take down others. Purely in their best interest, and not a threat of any sort. They'd learn to trust America again, even Russia if enough time passed. Then America could go back, face them all with a decent story and a smile on his face.

He just needed _time_. And he needed Russia to give it to him.

"Hypothetical question," America said, his foot settling on the brake only yards away from the road.

"Yes?"

"Say hypothetical-me wanted to hang around a bit longer, would hypothetical-you be down with that?"

"Yes."

"You mean it, or are you just being nice?" America questioned, his fingers toying with the keys that dangled from the ignition.

"I would welcome hypothetical-you into my hypothetical home indefinitely."

"Oh," America said calmly, allowing the truck to idle in the snow. He heard more than saw Russia as he undid his seatbelt and slid from the truck. America followed suit, leaving the warm interior to momentarily brave the icy outside air.

He met Russia in front of the grill of the car, their shoulders brushing together as they passed, hands glancing off one another's for a split second. America paused in his steps, looking over his shoulder to see Russia casting him one last look as well, something quiet and unreadable in his eyes, as though he were trying desperately to communicate without words, but America could not understand, though he yearned to.

He thought it might be gratitude, but for all America knew, it was his own thankfulness simply reflecting in Russia's eyes. But there was something else, cold and smooth and matted in that purple gaze. Something that made America wonder if Russia really would've let him go if they reached the airport, or if this was just a twisted test he'd managed to pass without realising.

America's thoughts turned to a white, unimportant static when Russia smiled at him, all funny and lopsided, like he wasn't used to doing it so much and the act was starting to task him. America's heart faltered for a moment at the sight, skipped a step like it was playing hop-scotch. His fingers twitched of their own accord, his muscles quietly aching to pull Russia close and just feel him. Feel the way he smiled in that strange little way, feel the way his heart beat sure and steady within his chest.

But he couldn't, because that wasn't how things worked. England had taught him that. The world might say the easiest way to get things you wanted was to come right out with it, but England had shown America, however unwittingly, that no amount of asking or pleading, not even foot-stomping and crying, would keep someone with you, would make them hold you close. Nothing could ever stop England from setting sail.

America sighed and shook his head, flashing a weak, forced grin before going around to the passenger side and climbing in. Russia had already slid behind the wheel and was watching him, eyes still conversational but unreadable. He looked to be on the verge of speaking, but America had no idea of how to push him. He just waited, quietly, patiently, until Russia seemed to think better of it, and turned his attentions to the truck.

"Thanks for taking over," America said as he let his eyes slip shut, resting them for a moment, not quite sure if he was referring to something beyond driving.

"I do not mind," Russia said softly.

And with that same softness, he reached out and brushed the back of his hand along America's cheek, tender and kind and only too reassuring. With a sweet sigh and a flutter of his lashes, America leaned into the touch, nearly purring at the contact. He found himself sidling nearer to Russia, thinking of how easy he was to get close to, and how easily he seemed to tolerate America.

He really wasn't like England at all, was he? England, who was always saying he'd be back in just a few weeks, really meaning just a few months. England, who didn't understand that children and adults alike needed affection, to be held and cared for without asking for it, and then being too stiff and unsure of how to give it. Not that America held it against England. That was what made England, well, England.

But Russia didn't need to be told. He knew what to give, when to give it, and how to be close without overbearing─ or at least, he was getting better at that. He knew that America needed a certain closeness, almost always, and wasn't shy about offering it without words, like how he allowed America to rest a head on his shoulder without question, as he was doing now.

And so, with the two of them content with the change of plans, Russia drove them home as America dozed on and off, rocked by the swaying of the car, his greatest concern being whether or not the power was back on, and if Russia was in the mood to watch some movies.

* * *

A/N:

-AMERICA. Really. _Really_? Way to be a bimbo. King Bimbo. Archbishop of Bimbobury. Just because your captor hugs you and is nice and lets you kick your feet back and relax doesn't mean you should hang around.

But that's okay, really, it is. It's not like you can hide from the rest of the world forever.

Ohhh, _yeah_.

As always, people who point out typos and grammatical problems get my eternal gratitude!


	15. Chapter 15

As it turned out, Russia was in the mood to watch a few flicks. The electricity, however, wasn't. It seemed to be taking the day off, the sun doing its best to light up the world in its stead. The house they returned to was cold as a meat locker, old tapestries hanging from the walls in the place of stripped animal carcasses. Russia took the temperature in stride, going so far as to shrug his coat off and hang it on the rack as he passed over the threshold. America silently suspected it was somehow colder inside than it was out, and kept his own coat on.

"Got any fun plans?" America asked casually, flicking various light switches on, knowing full well it wouldn't change a thing.

"Work."

"That's fun?" America wrinkled his nose as he tagged alongside Russia, syncing their steps. They seemed to be heading towards the kitchen.

"It is what I must do."

"Yeah, but you're _always_ working. Haven't you ever heard of the ol' nine-to-five? You gotta give yourself a break, man. Or at least let me help out."

Russia looked up from the fridge, a carton of eggs in one hand. "You would like to help?" He didn't exactly sound like he trusted America's intent.

"Yep, that's what I said." The stove hissed and popped as one of the burners sprang to life, a twisted blue flame erupting momentarily before calming. America pulled a pan from the wall and set it down, single-handedly cracking egg after egg as Russia handed them over. In his other hand was a spatula, which he toted like a baton, conducting an invisible orchestra as he saw fit.

Russia stared at the eggs as America fried them up, his internal debate obvious. America knocked his hip playfully against Russia's, eager to encourage him. He'd been around the block enough times to tackle the most mundane of paperwork, and even the trickier stuff he could figure out if given enough time.

"Okay," Russia conceded as he held up a plate for America to push eggs onto. "You can help."

And so, with their bellies full, America padded after Russia to his room with an ear-to-ear grin and bright, happy eyes. Russia was much calmer about the whole thing, acting as though nothing had changed, but nothing could dampen America's mood, not even the pile of paperwork Russia gave him.

"Sign these," was all he instructed America to do.

And America did. He signed on the dotted line every time without asking a single question. He signed the papers that were in Russian, and he signed the ones in English that said he'd had the documents translated and explained. His pen hesitated only when skimming the few that were entirely in English, offering trade agreements and some going so far as to share military secrets.

America was big on sharing. For the most part, at least. It had been a childhood lesson he'd embraced with open arms, one he'd quickly become keen on after seeing the smiles it brought to the faces of others. The way a handful of knotted flowers (which, looking back on it, America thought might have been weeds) could transform England's scowl into something light and airy and carefree.

But of all the things America was happy to share, his secrets were not one of them. Of course, recent military advances were hardly something he'd had a hand in as of late, not with all the back and forth between meetings of people whose names he could not recall, people with faces he never truly recognized, but he still felt a certain possession when it came to weaponry. And Russia had his own secrets regarding weaponry, too. Dropping tantalizing hints every so often to keep America on his toes.

America looked over at Russia, wondering if he could manage to sneak the paper away without signing it. Russia was lost in his own world of words, eyes darting in neat, flicking rows as he read. Thinking he could get away with his ploy, America quietly creased the paper and made to slip it under his coat, stow it away for reading later on, but Russia seemed to sense this.

He looked up, his gaze clear and inquiring, pale lips curling into a slight frown. America fanned himself with the paper, pretending it had been his intention to do so all along. With a deft, thoughtless movement, Russia plucked it away and brought it closer for examination, face hidden as he read it. When he lowered the paper, his frown had deepened and his shoulders seemed to slump.

"You do not need to sign this, I understand it worries you," Russia said, almost in a whisper.

"Worried? Heck, I'm not worried about a silly little thing like this." America forced a smile and snatched the sheet back, flattening it before him and letting his pen hover above the paper. "You just do your thing and I'll do mine."

Russia nodded once before resuming his work. This time, it was America's turn to frown.

He'd expected Russia to press, gently coax him into signing with crooned words of encouragement, maybe a fleeting stroke to push America into penning. He was surprised to find that without Russia's affectionate lure, a cold, sharp, stinging sensation manifested in place of the warm and comforted feeling he'd been expecting. America snuck the unsigned agreement back into the stack and went back to signing his life, and his country, away.

His pen moved in absent flicks, scratching away while the chilliness in his chest grew. At first it was just a pang, something almost akin to the nip of being politely rebuffed, but it grew to hurt, icy and aching, closer to full out rejection. America sighed deeply, feeling for all the world like a sulking youngster whose mother had forgotten to hug him after getting a skinned knee.

Of course he could lean over and rest his shoulder against Russia's. They were close enough, both of them sitting together at the desk, but it wouldn't be the same. America wanted Russia to initiate the touch. America didn't have to take responsibility for it that way, could keep up the front that he didn't crave it so badly.

As America continued to brood, the prospect of work grew less and less interesting. It wasn't like he was getting much done, really. He figured that to Russia, he was like a child brought to work for the day, eager to help but always in the way. And like the parent of that child, Russia was sure to provide America with the most menial and repetitive tasks that could not be botched.

Propping his chin on his hand, America set to watching Russia. He was much more pleasing to look at than line after line of intricately scrawled words in a foreign language. The way the line of his jaw stood out just so, strong and handsome. And his skin, almost eerily pale, but all the more fascinating to look at. The deep purple of his eyes and the snow-flecked appearance of his lashes was always a great draw, too, along with the enticing pink of his lips.

America wished those lips would smile more. Not sneer or snarl, as they had in the past. But the occasional, and only too sensational, upturned twist of his lips that showed how happy he was, like the kind he'd given America that morning. It almost hurt to look at, nearly drove America to his knees with the way it made his heart shiver and scattered his thoughts, but it was his favorite smile. Especially when he saw that funny little snaggletooth, but that would make it a grin, and Russia didn't seem like much of a grinner. He was definitely a smiler.

"Hey," America said, awkward and a little too raspy to be casual.

"Yes?"

"You should do something. _We_ should do something."

"I would like to think we are doing something, America." Russia turned his head to meet America's eye, his gaze solemn and grounded.

"We are, but this is just, like, I don't know. You do this all the time. A lot."

"I have to."

"Okay, I get that. You live a serious life, my serious Russian friend. You can still do fun things, though. Don't gotta do this stuffy-stuff all the time." Russia cocked his head to the side, like a confused dog making sense of a new situation, and America took it as a cue to continue. "Do something you _want_ to, not something you _have_ to. You feel me?"

Russia hummed thoughtfully, indulgently. "What if what I wish to do might bother others?"

"Might?" America questioned.

"It could result in a problem."

"Oh. Uh, well in that case, go for it. Like, this one time, I was staying at this hotel and listening to the radio, and my _jam_ came on. Sure it was two in the morning, but hey, I had to groove. So I turned the radio up, blasted it like no one's business, figured people would complain to the management but heck if I cared at the moment. And you know what happened?"

"No."

"Turned out it was my neighbor's jam as well."

"And no one complained?"

America scratched at his chin and shrugged. "I think someone did, the spoilsport. But me and my neighbor buddy rocked out like stars for those three minutes that the song was on for. Never did find out who they were, but that's not the point. The point if you don't know how someone's going to react to something, do it anyway. If they don't like it, you'll find out. If they do, well, then that's pretty cool, isn't it?"

"I do not think I fully grasp what you are telling me."

"I don't think I do either," America said sheepishly. It had all sounded much more eloquent and educational in his head.

"That is okay." Russia lifted a hand and carded it once through America's hair before trailing his fingers down America's cheek. "I enjoyed the story." He gave a light scratch along the underside of America's jaw, as though rewarding a favored pet.

America nuzzled against Russia's hand, friendly and happy and perhaps going on a bit further than friends would. "So go for it, okay? You wanna blast music, do it. Not like anyone's going to complain. Whatever floats your boat, right?"

"Yes, but I may think it over first, if you do not mind."

"Do your thing, buddy. Doesn't bother me one bit. But don't overwork yourself."

The two of them sat in a momentary silence, Russia watching with a muted amusement as America bobbed his head to an unheard tune, the jam from so long ago. America smiled when he caught Russia looking, but it faltered on his lips as he caught sight of the bruise he had inflicted, and he found himself looking away to the window, where everything was bright and white and nearly blinding. He shivered reflexively at the snowy scene, the act punctuated by the rumble of the heater as it woke.

America perked. "That thing workin' now?"

"It would appear so." Russia had begun scribbling away again.

"Awesome!" America exclaimed, rising from his seat in a clatter. "Power's back on." And with that he was out the door, running through the house to find every light on. His next stop was his own room, where he had been sure to stash a space heater in the closet for future use.

He dragged it out in a rush, the floor squealing and scraping as he did so. No more days spent bundled up to the point of ridiculousness to stay warm, no more nights spent curled under the covers with Russia's coat. That was the past, and this was the future. The future was good, and America gave his heater a friendly pat after he plugged it in, urging it to work.

It coughed and sputtered for a moment. It was old, antiquated, a peculiar shade of gray that America thought came with age, but at least it worked. He held his hands palm-up towards the metal grill as it warmed to a dull red. He shifted from foot to foot impatiently as the grill continued to heat, closing in on a burning orange hue.

"Success," America murmured in awe under his breath, Frankenstein watching his monster come to life.

While he didn't have many sheets left on the bed after using them the night before when they slept before the fireplace, he had enough to make a sparse nest on the floor before the heater. Through his exploration of the house, he'd not only found the space heater, but many an interesting bauble as well.

He found the boxes Russia had taken away in the beginning, the ones he'd used to protect him when he used to be afraid. But now he wasn't, and America felt entitled to having them back, not that he'd taken them all. Russia would've noticed if America's room had reverted to its cluttered state in only a day, but America had taken the boxes with books, the ones in English.

There were books of all sorts. Dictionaries from Russian to English, fairy tales meant for those who had only just started to read, and quite a few westerns. There were even some romance novels, but America regarded the well-oiled men of their covers with suspicion, as though touching the image would cause his fingers to grease. He settled instead for a spy novel.

The book was surprisingly engrossing, filled with twists and double-crossing characters. America found his mind drifting to make believe situations of his own, ones where _he_ was a spy. That'd be nice. He had the perfect setup for it, free reign of Russia's house, the privilege of going through his paperwork, even if it was in another language, and an innocent, unsuspecting face that all spies had. Also a dash of the swarthy good looks the ladies loved. He hoped.

And the secrets he could get out of Russia! America would be like a _homme fatale_. He could trade kisses for certain 'classified' codes, but even the mental image of it brought a blush to his cheeks. America wasn't much for using others**'** more carnal urges to get what he wanted. Espionage was fun and all, but he wanted Russia to tell him things without having to use his body to do it. That was definitely better, and much more satisfying.

Not that he wouldn't mind kissing Russia. Russia had nice lips, after all. America had found that out first hand the night before. And that was another nice thing Russia had, hands. So tender and almost timid when they'd found his own as they lay down to sleep. America had expected Russia to have the rough, calloused hands of a fieldworker, but he hadn't been disappointed to find him instead owning the hands of a craftsman.

America sprawled on his belly and kicked his legs thoughtlessly as he got lost in midday fantasies he would never admit to having. He giggled a few times, silly little squeals where his imagination needed to be reeled in, and made little progress in his reading for the better of an hour, managing only a handful of pages before he was distracted even further by the knock on his door.

"Come in," he sing-songed, marking his page by folding the corner.

Russia let himself in without a word, quietly shutting the door and striding forward. America took Russia's hand when it was offered, surprised to find himself hoisted up with a surge of strength, and then positively shocked as he was shoved back against the wall, his body pinned by Russia's. But even if Russia hadn't been holding him still, hands gripping too tightly to be taken as anything but restrictive, the look in his eyes would have held America at fifty yards.

America wasn't sure what to make of it, really. He hadn't seen it before. Not on Russia's face, nor anyone else's. America didn't think he could ever reproduce it in the mirror, not even if he tried for years. It was bright but conflicted, a troubled shine. Some blurred line between emotions America couldn't read.

He recoiled as much as he could, back pressed flush against the wall. With thoughts that flitted through his mind too quickly to grasp, America wondered if it was the book that had done it. He shouldn't have dog-eared that page. Russia was probably one of _those_ people. The kind that could take a knock on the chin like a champ, but flay the skin from your back for stealing the newspaper from the driveway only once. Not that he had a driveway.

America's tongue twitched as he bordered on apologising, but any inclination to evaporated as Russia leaned in, so close America could feel the muted warmth of Russia's breath as it mingled with his own. America instinctively made to turn his head away, but found himself paralyzed as Russia's lips pressed against his.

Russia was kissing him, America knew. It was about the only thing he did know. But it was different from how anyone had ever kissed him before. In the past he'd received quite a few, chaste little touches, simple smooches lasting no more than a moment. But this was deeper, hungrier. Something wild and ravenous like a pent-up animal, all tense muscles and coiled desire. It was more passion than romance, more driving zeal than finesse.

It made America's thoughts spin out of his head like a centrifuge, drew his breath out in a startled, ragged gasp that Russia was all too eager to capture. America's body melted in lieu of his weakening will, arms wrapping around Russia's shoulder to support himself. He returned the kiss with an enthusiasm that betrayed his addled mind, the act automatic, kept his lips on Russia's until his lungs screamed for air while his nerves burned with a heady, intoxicating agitation. Unable to fend off the dizziness that consumed him, America pulled back and gasped for a breath of air.

And promptly found his head colliding with the wall with a sickening crack.

America's first reaction was to spit a mouthful of expletives out in a neat little string that cracked near the end. His second was to start sliding down the wall, his hands going to cradle the back of his head as he went, knees pulling up to his chest as he curled defensively on the floor. It was not, by any stretch of his imagination, the best way to end a kiss. He was suddenly very aware that it was likely he would die from sheer embarrassment if he wasn't so sure splitting his skull in two was already going to take care of that.

But pain had as sobering an effect as any, and within seconds it wasn't the ending of the kiss that horrified him, but the fact it had even happened at all. America kept his hands clasped over the back of his head, his face buried between his knees. Shivers slid up his spine, tiny, unbidden aftershocks of heated exhilaration. He breathed shallowly through pursed lips, his eyes wide but unseeing.

"_Shit_," America cursed under his breath, "are you for real?" He ran a tongue along his teeth as he looked up, judging from the dull numbness he felt─or rather, didn't feel─that he might have knocked one against Russia's. Probably the snaggletooth. Definitely the snaggletooth.

Russia crouched before him, reached out with a tentative hand to try and pull America's away. "Are you bleeding?"

"Uh─**"** America pulled his hands away and looked to them. "─ah. I'm tougher than that." But he placed them back over the throbbing spot, huddling in close on himself before repeating, "Are you for real? I mean, seriously." He couldn't come up with much beyond that.

Russia didn't respond, he just sighed, so deep and heavy America could feel the weight of it settling on both of their shoulders. America chanced a peak at Russia, and found his expression faraway and forlorn. Almost lost. Definitely sorry. An intense awkwardness built in the silence Russia left, growing and growing until it was nearly suffocating America, and he had to fight back by speaking again.

"Was that what you wanted to do? I mean, earlier and all, when we talking about other people's feelings and jazz."

"Yes."

"Huh," was America's only answer. It wasn't a question, or an agreement, merely a simple acknowledgment that he was still in the conversation. "Okay, well, for future reference, you can't really do that." And then, at the flash of hurt and rejection and absolute _shame_ that flickered through Russia's eyes, America found himself unable to stop himself from pleading, "I─Wait, c'mon, don't look at me like that."

Russia looked away, his head seeming to shake as he did so. The softness of his face, those large, hurt eyes. The way he'd pulled his hands up to his chest like a shield. It reminded America of how children made to defend themselves without realising it, always when they were caught doing something they knew was wrong. He was instantly recalled to days of nightly nibbles on cookies, watering the houseplants with his tea, and all the dread that came from England walking in on him doing so.

"You're not in trouble," America blurted, rather artlessly at that. "It's just that, like─**"** he desperately cobbled together the kindest way to tell Russia that kissing captors was a no-no. "This isn't really a good situation for that sorta thing, you feel me?"

"No," Russia said, and America thought it sounded a little pouty, a little 'I know what you mean, but I want to make you suffer. Say it.'

"You kinda took me from my house, buddy. Maybe if things were different we could be, y'know─**"** America fidgeted a bit, unable to finish. "It's not something we should do."

"I let you go."

"Oh." America frowned to himself, quizzical and not quite sure. "That's true."

Russia stared at him expectantly, the hurt still showing around the edges of his mouth, but otherwise held at bay, at least for the moment. America nibbled on his own lower lip, worrying it relentlessly. Russia had let him go, after all. There was a logic to not being at all physically intimate with Russia─and oh, how _that_ thought made America's blood jump─when he was the captor, the bad guy, the villain.

But now, if he was a mere host, nothing but an accommodating friend who was simply, and shyly, trying to show America how he felt without words, without the cumbersome bumbling of tongues and spoken language that hindered, it didn't seem so bad. Not when they were two lonely pals.

Because America suspected that was Russia's Achilles heel. Not drink or money, no vice of a tangible, lasting sort. But love, companionship, and the undying desire to have _someone_. Someone to hold and stroke and pet, someone to come home to at night and curl up with, someone who understood your faults and strange habits and embraced them. And America could understand that on an intrinsic level, one beyond thought or reason. A level that was nothing but raw, naked need.

"Okay," America murmured to himself, and then again, "okay." Like a mantra to steady his nerves. "It's okay then, right?"

And Russia was close again, close enough America thought he could hear the excited hitch of his breath, and was struck by the absurd realisation that he'd never seen or heard Russia get excited before. He smiled to himself, almost devious, at the fact he could do such a thing to the usually stoic Russia.

America leaned forward, pressing his lips to Russia's, timid and tenacious all at once. He was careful to savor the moment, etch the feel of Russia moving against him into his mind, the way he breathed (soft and sweet) and the way his tongue flicked along America's lower lip (tasting and testing). Everything about the moment, from the stillness of the stifling air, to the heat that seemed to be burning America from the inside out, devouring his senses like a wildfire fanned by gales.

And America knew that it was wrong, but he couldn't see why anymore.

* * *

It was a mistake to kiss Russia, America saw in hindsight. That cursed thing. So picture perfect, so crystal clear. But always too late to be of use. Like the momentary, last-second recognition of headlights to a deer frozen in the road. Very much there, but incredibly useless. Infuriatingly so, almost.

The mistake had flipped a switch. Like taking an electrified fence and shutting it off. Leaving the wires as harmless as twine as the wolf crept beneath them, wheedled his way into the pasture, cozying up with the sheep before anyone had even noticed.

But by the time America had realised his predicament, he was far past caring. His concerns had fizzled out, fried by electric touches, the light drag of finger pads creeping beneath his shirt, skimming along his hotly flushed skin, the flicker of a breath along the shell of his ear.

All of it had been too much for America to handle, intoxicating and overwhelming, leaving him a mushy little heap of bliss. Once he'd started, he wasn't able to stop. Russia seemed to feel the same way, America had noted, because they were never able to pass in the hallways without casually rubbing against each other, like two friendly cats, all twined hands and fingers in the place of tails.

They hadn't talked about it, though. Not _really_. Russia hadn't taken the time to point out that suddenly America was always eager to be in his arms or at his side, happy to dote over Russia every day he woke, ready to treat him to breakfast in bed on a daily basis. America tempered his own obvious affection by being sure never to spend the night outside of his own bed, his space heater proving itself a more than trusty companion during the particularly chilly hours that proceeded sunrise.

The hardest part about it all wasn't the trap America felt himself slipping into, easily sliding into a comfortable day-to-day existence that was proving itself all the more enjoyable, but that he was coming to depend on Russia more and more. Ceaselessly, even.

From groceries, to news, to affection, Russia was America's sole supplier. The shelves were always stocked full, and he was never hesitant to give a hug or hold America close, not that they had kissed again. Not yet. But he was always tight-lipped when America asked of the outside world, whether or not their fellow nations were still suspicious, if he could maybe, just for a few minutes, watch TV. That was always met with an indifferent answer that wasn't truly an answer at all. The combination of a nod and a shake of the head. Mixed messages America knew were meant to baffle him further.

He stopped asking after a few days of getting nowhere, figured Russia would tell him when the time was right, or if anything went disastrously wrong. So instead of worrying himself sick over politics and power, America resigned himself to boyish worries, like if the next snowfall would bring decent enough amount for a snowman, or whether or not the spider he'd spotted that morning would be waiting in his bed come nightfall.

All of his worries, however, were blown straight out of the water the morning he woke up to find Russia gone.

* * *

A/N:

-Sorry for posting this a smidge later than I usually do! I don't really have much of an excuse other than I was being scatter-brained and went to work without uploading, or even remembering to post, until about fifteen minutes ago. I'm also sorry if the end bit seems tacked on. It was a part I wanted to be in this chapter, but was having a hard time blending in, if you know what I mean.

-Secondly, a livejournal user named fakeroman drew some fanart for the story, which is rad beyond words, especially considering I've never received fanart of any sort before! However, I know ff makes it a tad hard to link to stuff, so... I'm not exactly sure how to show it! I'll try posting the link and see if it works. s826 . photobucket . com/albums/zz189/ fakeroma/

-Thirdly, thank you to everyone who reads and reviews, and to those who point out my typos and formatting errors. I always love to hear from you!


	16. Chapter 16

America knew from the moment he awoke, still half-trapped in a world of restless sleep and dreams, that Russia was gone. The house told him. It was too empty, too silent, still as death. Not that it wasn't always quiet, but this was a different sort of quiet. The air hung in place, stiff and frozen. There was no creaking of floorboards as Russia moved about, no soft hiss of steam as he showered. There was just _nothing_.

America kicked off the sheets in a rush, half-tripping himself in his haste. He was normally awake before Russia, prancing about in the kitchen as he cooked up a hearty breakfast, but even then he could still sense that Russia was there, tucked away in bed, the occasional bear-like snuffle reaching his ears as Russia stirred from sleep, as though waking from a long hibernation.

But as America crept into Russia's room, he found no one within. The bed was made, military crisp, and, as America found as he made to smooth out an imaginary crease, already cold. Fancying that the house only felt like that, a _house_, America padded through the halls and rooms in a vain search to find Russia.

Only on his third round was he able to accept the truth. He plopped down on Russia's bed, rucking up the sheets as he shivered from cold and frustration. There wasn't even a note pinned to the fridge, or any kind of clue as to when Russia would be back. His coat was still on the hanger by the door, and America wondered if it was some kind of collateral, a promise that he'd return. Because he had to, right?

America shook his head and sighed. He was being ridiculous. Of course Russia was coming back. It was his house after all, though only a home when he was in it. Without him, it was but an empty, hulking building constructed of brick and mortar, waiting like a patient dog for its master, loyal only to him.

America found himself debating pulling on Russia's coat and legging it in the hopes of catching up with him. Another ridiculous notion, he knew, but one that brought him an inkling of comfort. But in case he did need to head out though, supposing the whim took him, America went to snatch up his shoes.

Except they weren't where he'd left them. Which was okay, because America was always misplacing things, even if he was sure he'd put them by the door, all neat and lined up with Russia's. Not that those were around, either. Nor the second pair Russia had, the felted ones that America liked to pet when he was sure he wouldn't be caught. He was suddenly sure he'd find no shoes in the house.

When he wandered into the kitchen, more out of boredom than hunger, he found a pot of coffee already brewing. Judging by the aroma, or lack of it, the coffee had been going for quite some time. America gave a tentative sniff, searching for a scent to pique his thirst, but could catch not a whiff. He still had a cup, from both habit and appreciation of Russia's gesture, but he found no joy in the drink.

Sullen and broody, America set to eating. Nothing appealed to him, but the urge was there. The need to nibble away at food like his nerves nibbled away at his mind. A physical outlet for his mental anxieties He settled on a few sickly-sweet and sticky pastries, stacking them in one hand while carrying a tepid mug of coffee in the other.

He retired to Russia's room without a second thought, slipping beneath the covers like a slithering serpent looking for warmth. The coffee he relegated to Russia's nightstand, accidentally knocking it against the ledge, watching with disinterest as a few drops of coffee sloshed over mug's mouth. He made no move to clean it up, instead smiling strangely to himself, figuring that Russia deserved it. He had, after all, ditched without a word.

Who was he to leave like that? He couldn't even be bothered to jot down a note, an explanation for his absence. As he munched away at his pastries, America paid no mind to the crumbs that snuck into the bed with him. He wouldn't have to clean them up, after all. They could be a nice little welcoming present for Russia. A passive-aggressive 'Don't you do that to me ever again.' that would be impossible to ignore.

Amidst indulging in his irritation, America found himself at a loss for what to do without Russia around. He scanned the room for amusement, an activity to quell his mind until Russia returned. Whenever that would be. Not too long, America figured, because Russia would have warned him then.

Clapping his hands together to remove most of the mess that had accumulated on them, America's eyes fell upon an old and favored act for passing the time, the television. The age old remedy for the bored masses. The perfect thing to tide him over and lull him into docility. For a few hours, at least.

America set to rummaging about Russia's nightstand drawer, fingers worming their way around pens and papers and little bits of everything in search of the remote. His hand closed around it at last, and he pulled it out with a flourish, already craving the entertainment to come.

He pointed the remote at the slate-gray screen, grinning toothily as it flickered to life, a faint glow appearing at the edges at it did. America settled back in the bed, his spine relaxing and curving along mattress, the covers inching up as he settled down for the long haul.

His eyes lazily slid in and out of focus as he watched the TV, content to watch commercial after commercial in wait of an actual show. His patience was rewarded tenfold when ticker-tape headlines began to crawl along the bottom of the screen and the constant barrage of colorful ads was replaced by a news desk, complete with a nonthreatening-looking anchorman.

America's body melted into the bed as he watched, warm and comfortable and slightly excited by the thought that this was the spot _Russia_ slept in. The place his body lay every night, curled or stretched out, strong, long limbs sleepily twining with the sheets, possibly hugging a pillow close or nuzzling against it. Russia struck America as a late-night cuddler, the kind who opened up so much more easily when he was teetering on the edge of slumber.

Forming personal assumptions as to the amount of physical affections Russia might expend while tired, America contentedly watched the news. There apparently wasn't much to report on aside from... grain? Exports? At least nothing seemed to be going wrong. Or maybe they hadn't reached that point yet, or it had passed before America had tuned in. For good measure, he continued to watch.

He watched the stories about construction, the ones about clothes or guns or maybe hiding guns in clothes. He watched the ones that would usually worry and upset him, with their disastrous looking graphs and red numbers. But with how the news anchor smiled kindly at the end of every segment, soft and simple, like he was telling the perfect ending to a fairy tale, America found himself at ease despite himself.

Then the conference came on. There was no lead-in, no preemptive warning that there'd be no more short little stories and nice smiles. Just the sudden confrontation of a high-ceilinged assembly hall with marbled floors and people lining desk after desk. The camera panned over solemn faces etched with cold, unreadable features, thin lips set into silent, refined scowls.

There was even something about the quality of the footage that lent it an unkind air. The way the cameraman's hand shook, how the speaker kept slamming his fist against the podium, like a judge in abuse of his gavel.

He didn't stop hitting the podium, either. America figured it would taper off after he spoke for a few minutes, but it just kept going. His speech became interspersed with the act, the bang of his closed hand against the oak beneath it, a sturdy _whumph_ to emphasize his point again and again. America didn't like it one bit.

He wanted Russia there, to have him explain why this man had such a steely edge in his voice and steely glint in his eye. Why the set of his jaw was becoming more and more strained, like a trap being wound up, ready to spring on any who interrupted him. And the words, while in English, were being drowned out yet again by a translator.

If Russia was home, he would explain everything. Hopefully. He might scold America for watching TV without permission, but this was Russia's comeuppance for ditching. He'd learn his lesson after this, once he came home. And what was taking him so long, anyway?

America glanced at the alarm clock. Two in the afternoon. More than enough time for Russia to have nipped out for some groceries and come back. Flinging the covers off in irritation and rising from the bed, America set to pacing, keenly aware that this was the longest amount of time he'd been away from Russia in months. It felt strange and foreign and above all, _wrong_.

Sure there had been stretches, from minutes to hours to days, where he'd refused to interact with the brute. But even then, the only thing keeping them apart were a few doors and a sturdy wall. Well, that and America's own stubbornness. And Russia indulged him through it all, always waiting and willing to accept him back into small talk and quiet activities without question.

America snorted at his own silliness. He'd warmed to Russia past the point of mere friendship. The thought didn't shock him as much as it once would have. Instead it was slowly sneaking into his mind, coiling around his consciousness, constant and calm and never leaving, not even now, when Russia had. It waited for Russia instead, just like the house did, just like America did. Patient, vigilant, and impossible to ignore.

In the meantime though, America needed someone. Not for long, and not for much. Only to ask a few questions, to receive a few soft, assuring words from. His tongue darting across his lips like a nervous snake, America eyed the phone on Russia's desk.

It was still and innocent, completely unassuming amongst the tidy array of pens and paperwork. Maybe America could give Canada quick ring, make sure things were alright back in the States, and with the rest of the world, really. His fingers crept along the desk, like a curious, pale spider, lightly stepping along the number pad, working towards the cradle.

He lifted the phone almost reverently to his ear, nearly in awe of how alien and wonderful the endlessly flat dial-tone that greeted him sounded. He skimmed the number pad, nails catching on the raised brail, and without consciously thinking about it, he found himself dialing his brother.

On the first ring, America was struck by the notion that he was making a mistake, and nearly slammed the phone back in its cradle. On the second, he had the fleeting idea that he should spill the beans the moment Canada picked up. His brother was good at handling bad situations without blowing up. Or at least, good at handling America's bad situations, like when he couldn't be bothered to get out of bed and pay the bills. On the third, America swore himself to silence about Russia. Mentioning him would complicate things, and things were probably pretty darn complicated already. On the fourth, the answering machine picked up.

America made to mimic the message, as he was wont to do, but found his lips forming all the wrong words, his tongue stumbling to a halt as he found himself out of sync with his brother. It wasn't the recording he was accustomed to, with its familiar and informative of: "Hello, you've reached Matthew's answering machine," followed by America's number, just in case it was a wrong call.

Instead it was like hearing a script repeated in a flat, monotone voice that America almost couldn't identify as his brother's. There was no personality, no inflection that dictated joy or sadness. Simply the enunciation of words on a page, informing the listener that this was Matthew's answering machine, but now it was Matthew _Williams_' answering machine. There was no mention of redirection of calls meant for America, and then there was another string of numbers for people with names that sounded too boring to be real, and offices too banal not to be.

Before he could even react to the unexpected change, the perfunctory beep that accompanied the end of the message sounded. More out of conditioned response than anything, America hung up the phone. He winced as he heard it click against its cradle, his mind one step behind his actions.

He reasoned that hanging up was for the best. What was he supposed to do? Babbling for a half minute about nothing, awkward and sputtering as he always was when leaving messages was hardly appealing. And it wasn't as though he could sneak in a few questions during a casual "How are you?" chat, since there was no one to answer him.

England's number was next up to bat, being the only other number he could recall.

On America's first bid for freedom, the one with guns and knives and falling down stairs, the one he never thought about unless it surfaced in his nightmares, he'd wanted to get a hold of England. Canada was reliable, faithful, a cowboy's trusty steed, but England had that wild streak in him, the one that didn't stop to plan, just _acted_. Rescuing America would be right up his alley, America felt, even if England was never fond of being a 'hero'. While he would never admit it, America was sure England still considered himself a knight of sorts, chivalrous til the end.

But America didn't need rescuing anymore, didn't want it. Sure, the big bad dragon had carried him off and locked him in a tower, but the dragon was merely misunderstood, a lonely thing that pined for companionship. England wouldn't get that though; he'd assume the worst no matter what unless America sat him down and told him to the contrary. And while America couldn't exactly have sit-down chat with England, at least he could phone him and tell him not to worry.

England picked up on the third ring. He always did. Picking up on the first was too soon, and quite frankly rude, he had informed America many years back. On the second, and you seemed too eager. The third was the perfect time, as answering on the fourth kept the caller in suspense too long.

"Hey, England," America blurted the instant the line picked up, eager to get the first words out of the way.

"Ah, hello─" England paused, and America could almost hear him trying to put a name to his caller. He never was very good at picking out voices.

"It's me," America prompted, as he always did when calling England. It had been a habit he'd simply fallen into, saying it at first to annoy England's sensibilities, being purposefully casual to the man he knew loved politeness and ritual, but had one day found himself stuck in the groove of it.

"America," England said softly, breathing the name in a soft, astonished whisper.

"Yep, that's my name. Don't wear it out," America responded, a little too quickly to be comfortable. "Or you'll have to buy me a new one or something." He grimaced at the noise he forced through his throat, one settled between a bleat and a chuckle. An awkward silence followed in its wake.

America swallowed, anxiety palpable as he waited for England to speak again. Or maybe he already had, and America had missed it. It could be that England was waiting for him, even. No matter who was meant to speak, neither of them did. They instead wallowed in the dead air that was smothering them both. America thought he could hear England shifting about a bit, or at least breathing, but he wasn't sure. The noise was lost to his ears as the heater rumbled to life, the vibration surreal and strong in the moment.

"How are you?" England asked, a gruff tremble riding his question

"Me?" America said. "Uh, I'm fine. Yeah, Just ducky, really. Fit as ever," he insisted.

In reality, America's neck ached, his joints were stiff, and his whole body seemed intent on locking up or relaxing in all the wrong places. He was a poorly-oiled machine, worn down and ready to come apart. But England didn't know that, and America saw no reason to inform him. It was all a passing thing, anyway. Brought on by stress and worry and how damn cold it seemed to be every minute of the day.

"Is─ is somebody keeping you there?" England finally said, the syllables slurring in a hasty breath, as though afraid his words might slip away.

"Keeping me here?" America laughed, or at least tried to. "As if. They couldn't give me the boot even if they wanted to."

"So you're staying with someone, then? Where are you? Who are you with?"

"Man, is this twenty-one questions or what?" It seemed to America that his shirt was suddenly too-hot around the collar, scratchy and stifling. "I'm not hangin' out with anyone. I meant, like, they couldn't kick me out of the area."

"Where are you?" England asked again, his tone on the verge of pleading.

"Look, that's not important," America soothed, fully aware of how important it was. "I just wanted to check in, okay?" Because that was what he had meant to do. Just find out a few things, not be talked into revealing his whereabouts. America closed his eyes and sighed. "Seriously, don't freak or anything, I'm cool."

"No one's heard from you in months," England countered. "And you're going to ring me up to say you're 'cool'?"

"Nuh-uh, I sent you letters and stuff." America wondered if that was a lie, considering it both true and false all at once.

"Well they read like you had a gun pointed to your head," England sniffed, sounding both angered and concerned, which America had long ago decided was the norm for him.

America couldn't help but smile to himself at that. Clearly, Russia's impersonation was not infallible. His sense of superiority was momentarily suspended as the heater growling to life again. This time it sounded like it always did, a hollow purr as opposed to the distant sound from before. And for it to go off again so soon stuck America as strange. Hopefully the heating wasn't going on the fritz.

England's next words sliced through America's musings. "Why did you leave?"

"Long story," was America's immediate reply. It was, after all. He couldn't tell the truth, not to England. Not to anyone, really. It struck him that he'd probably never be able to speak the truth about how he'd ended up at Russia's house, assuming that he did mention it someday. Which he'd have to. Eventually.

Maybe he could try calling Canada again, blurt out his situation in one breath and see what his brother thought of it. But how would he even begin? "Hey, Russia kidnapped me and then let me go but I kind of want to stick around here anyway," didn't appeal to him. He knew how weird it would sound, how Canada would probably deem him insane on the spot. America consoled himself with the fact he was aware of how bad it all sounded, and a crazy person wouldn't grasp that. He, after all, wasn't crazy.

"─and I've half a mind to think you don't care," England was saying, bringing America again out of his thoughts.

"Of course I care," America snapped, not exactly sure what he was meant to be caring about. "I am the caringest person on the planet. Care, England? I've gotten awards for caring. That is how serious I am about it." Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, America listened to the steady _click click click_ of England's shoes as he paced, so clear it was like he was in the next room over.

"If someone's keeping you there, tell me you have a craving for─ for my scones."

"England, I'm fine. For real." America did have a craving for England's scones, though. "Man, couldn't we have a chill chat for once instead of arguing?"

"If that's so, I expect to see you at the next meeting." And the challenge in England's voice was something America couldn't resist.

"See ya then, buckaroo," America shot back, full of bravado and courage, and then, before he hung up, "Nice talking to you again." The phone was back in its cradle before England could respond.

America sat back in his seat, staring at the phone as though daring England to call him back. He listened to the wind as it brushed along the window, the creak of wood as the house settled and stirred, and waited for the phone to ring. When he was satisfied with the unbroken silence, he stood with a yawn and a long, drawn-out stretch.

Taking his cue from the deep shadows that had started to stretch across the floor, America decided dinner was in order. He could whip a meal up before Russia got home, whenever the heck that was. Really, he could have at least called by now, not that America would've picked up the phone, but the _thought_ was what mattered. At least it wouldn't leave him worried and nibbling away in bed, offering his waking hours to the glow of the television screen and dialing people he really shouldn't.

"Oh well," America said, placating his loneliness through the sound of his own voice, "what he doesn't know can't hurt him." His fingers wrapped loosely around the doorknob and tugged.

Waiting on the other side, with an unsettlingly serene smile pulling at his lips, was Russia. He stepped past America without a word, the sound of his shoes against the floor a sickeningly familiar _click click click_.

* * *

A/N:

-I almost forgot to post this! It feels more like a Tuesday than it does a Wednesday.

-I might have to change the rating for this story on account of the next chapter. I mean, it's nothing super explicit, but... yeah.

-Feel free to point out any grammatical mistakes or typos! Anyone who does has my eternal gratitude.


	17. Chapter 17

At first, America wasn't quite sure that he was looking at Russia. The man before him had the right face, the right hair and eyes, even the right scarf, but his outfit was all wrong. In place of the familiar beige coat was a green getup, a rich and appealing shade that was accented by gold trimming on the cuffs and atop the epaulets.

Gone was the red badge America had become accustomed to, replaced instead with an array of gleaming medals that dripped from colored ribbons nearly bursting from the breast of Russia's coat. Something about the way America's heart fluttered at the sight, how his knees threatened to knock together (and they _never_ did that, he wasn't a knee-knocker in the least), sparked the notion that he might very well be dreaming.

Surely he'd unwittingly fallen asleep as he drudged through TV shows. It was just a dream, nothing serious. And now he was simply going to have to deal with this dream-Russia. Except that it didn't feel much like a dream, not with how his bones ached with cold and his cheeks flushed with embarrassed heat. It all felt too real, and judging by the way Russia was looking at him, he almost seemed to be having the same internal debate.

"That wasn't what it looked─uh, sounded like," America started in, keen to get the upper hand.

"So you were not speaking on the phone to England?" Russia questioned softly, a curious purr rumbling in his throat, halfway to a chuckle.

"Okay, well, maybe it was what it sounded like. But─" America pointed to the ceiling, as though calling God as his witness. "I didn't tell him anything. And it's not like I would've called him to begin with if you were here." He smiled weakly to himself, more than willing to make Russia out to be the bad guy, if only to take the heat off himself for a moment. Plus, it wasn't as though he'd done anything wrong. Not really, just a quick phone call.

Still, he wasn't sure if the cold knot in his stomach was from guilt or the shock of being caught.

"I should be able to trust you alone in our home for only a few hours, should I not?" Russia's voice was even, and America took it as the calm before the storm.

"And shouldn't I be able to trust that you'll leave me a note if you're going to ditch?"

"I woke you," Russia argued, but the bite wasn't there. "I said, 'America, I must leave for a bit, will you be okay to stay here?' "

"Then what the heck did I say?"

"'Signs point to yes.'"

"Russia," America balked, his brow furrowing with disbelief. "That doesn't even make sense. That's something a magic eight-ball would say."

But it came back to America, like some half-remembered dream, a wisp of memory almost too faded to grasp. The touch of a hand stroking the side of his face, the light shake as Russia attempted to rouse him, and a gentle crooning in his ear. He could recall moving his lips, numb with sleep and not yet ready to speak, but working at it nonetheless. There was nothing in the way of image, though. Just the darkness that marched ahead of dawn.

"What time did you leave, anyhow?" America kept his tone casual, hiding any trace of interest. The longer he watched Russia, the more aware he was of the sleepy glaze in those violet eyes, and how little fight Russia was putting up in their argument. It was all strangely unsettling, like fighting a man who couldn't defend himself.

"Early," Russia said, sighing wearily.

"Ballpark," America coaxed.

Russia shrugged, hiding a yawn behind his hand. "Four."

"Oh," America said softly, the jumbled mix of his emotions slipping away until only concern was left. "Don't─don't worry about it, then. You hungry at all? I can make us something." He lurched forward a step as Russia made to sit. "Wait, I was being dumb earlier, there's junk in your bed."

"It is okay, America, I do not need anything." Russia pulled back the covers, nonchalantly sweeping away the crumbs that had made themselves comfortable. "I am merely ready to sleep." And without so much as shedding his uniform, Russia was crawling beneath the sheets, hiding himself beneath quilted covers.

America paused for a moment, one foot still poised to lead him closer to Russia's bed, the other facing the door. Sunlight slanted through the window, sharp and angular and dwindling all too quickly. It would be best to leave, let Russia rest over his long day of doing whatever it was he did (and whatever it was, America would certainly be asking in the morning) and skulk off before Russia could remember what he'd been privy to hearing.

Not that America had said anything _bad_. Maybe telling England he would most definitely, without a doubt, be showing up to the next meeting was not the greatest idea, but he'd been lost in the moment, too hot-blooded and headstrong to back down to England's repeated inquiries as to whether or not he was some kind of hostage. If America was a no-show when the time came, England's fears probably wouldn't be the least bit quelled.

_Another problem for another day_, America thought to himself. Russia would know when the next meeting was, could cobble up a decent enough excuse for America's absence. He had a talent for finagling, America knew that much. But as he was presently, breathing softly, eyes half-closed and fluttering on occasion, like a child straining against sleep, America found it nearly impossible to convince himself of that.

"Do not think you are off the hook," Russia said, the warning in his voice an unsettling contrast to his serene appearance.

"Figured as much," America teased lightly. He had a feeling the morning would bring with it a confrontation regarding his phone call, but at least he'd have the night to think of a defense. Not that he thought he'd need much beyond trying to blame Russia for leaving him in the first place, for giving him the opportunity.

Russia really shouldn't have left, the more America thought about it. The coffee was a nice gesture and all, but it was hardly a replacement for company. And now that he was back, he seemed to have no intention of apologizing, of offering up polite conversation or giving America a quick pat on the head before retiring. He appeared content to simply watch with tired eyes as America hung about like a fool.

"You could've taken me with you," America muttered, sharper than was strictly necessary.

"No, I could not."

"That's not true," America said, pouncing playfully on the bed, sprawling on the covers. It wouldn't hurt Russia to stay up a few minutes more.

Rolling onto his side, Russia watched America with an intensity that betrayed his weariness. America was sure he might be inching closer, if the way the mattress was constantly shifting was anything to go by. Cutting to the chase, he wriggled his way under the covers and abandoned any pretense of real anger by tucking himself against Russia, settling only when their foreheads nearly touched and they were so close America's eyes started to hurt from trying to focus.

"Take me with you next time. I'll be good, Scout's honor. I'll be like a dog, leave me in the cab with the window cracked and I'll be dandy." He worried his lower lip as he reconsidered the cold. "Actually, leave the window closed. Just crank the heater."

Russia treated America to a thoughtful hum, peaceful and untroubled, a noise born of deep, unvoiced affection. His hand snaked across the distance between them, taking up a steady stroke as he pet America's side, mussing his shirt and smoothing it again and again as he went, touch so light America felt unwanted giggles rising in his throat. In his distracted state, he failed to register just how little room was left between him and Russia until there were cool lips pressing against his.

America smiled into the kiss, his head light and airy and threatening to float away if he wasn't careful. Russia's hand abandoned its delicate petting in favor of hooking into America's side, like tender talons reeling him in, pulling him closer and closer until he could feel Russia's pins and medals pressing against his own chest. He struggled to laugh and kiss all at once, exchanging breaths with Russia as he took up chuckling as well.

"You're so weird," America snorted, rubbing his nose fondly against Russia's. "One minute you're all, 'Wah, I'm tired I wanna sleep,' and then the next you're Mr. Kissy-Kiss."

"I cannot help it." Russia whispered the words against America's lips. "I missed you dearly."

"Enough to let me tag along next time?" America plucked at Russia's scarf playfully.

Russia took America's hands in his own, drawing them away from the scarf and towards his lips. He gently kissed America's knuckles. "Signs point to yes."

America snorted again. "Y'mean that?"

"I do."

America pulled his hands from Russia's grasp and propped himself up on one arm, studying Russia in the dying light of the room, searching for a hint that he was making hollow promises. But Russia simply shifted onto his back, head tilted almost imperceptibly as he fixed his gaze on America. They eyed each other in silence, America looking down, Russia looking up, face half-shadowed and still, waiting quietly for America's next move.

"Mind if I crash here for the night?" America blurted artlessly.

Knowing himself to have a tendency to move about a lot as he slept, fingers seeking something to hold, a body to curl up against, a subconscious drive to seek out comfort, he figured it was worth asking. He'd been deprived of touch the entire day, a stretch that seemed impossibly long, lonely, and empty. Now Russia was home, lavishing him with kind affections to make up for lost time. America wasn't going to give that up so easily, even if it might mean kicking Russia awake sometime in the night.

In response, Russia reached up and carefully fished America's glasses from his face, setting them on his nightstand. America went to work on Russia's scarf again in return, gingerly trying to unravel it from his neck, clumsy and fumbling in his awkward position. He gave up after a moment, sighing and sitting up. A new attack plan was in order.

Without thinking, America struggled to his knees, tottering for an instant as he steadied himself. The next moment, he had hitched a leg over Russia and in an ungainly motion, attempted to straddle him. America did his best to place his weight on his knees, trying to keep from sitting on Russia, who, judging by his soft laughter, was finding the scene rather charming.

"Don't laugh at me," America chastised, setting to work again on Russia's scarf. "You're going to strangle yourself with this thing one of these nights."

Russia deftly batted America's hands away. "And on that day, you can stand over my grave and rub it in my face."

"I let you take off my glasses."

Russia didn't try to stop him after that.

"There," America said, once he'd gotten the scarf unwound, "That's not so bad, is it? Seriously, you worry too much, s'not like there's something wrong with your neck."

"You have terrible eyesight," was Russia's cryptic response.

"I wouldn't if you let me keep my glasses on."

Placing his hands on Russia's chest, America leaned down, squinting to distinguish anything amiss with Russia's neck, aside from the fact that it was bare. But his eyes were too bad, and the darkness too much. He could see nothing wrong. He made a mental note to check again the next time he caught Russia straight out of the shower. Preferably while he had his glasses on.

In an attempt to ease Russia's discomfort, America pressed a kiss to Russia's neck, lingering as he felt the slight hitch of breath, the inevitable bob of an Adam's apple. Intrigued, and somewhat giddy, America decided it was time to indulge the both of them.

He dotted fleeting kisses up Russia's neck, trailing his tongue lightly over what he thought might be a scar, earning a pleasant shiver from Russia. He nuzzled against the cool underside of Russia's jaw, humming against his skin, hands moving through hair the color of moonlight as he brought their lips together.

One slow, languid kiss burned away into the next, all conscious thought melting away along with inhibitions, giving way to nothing but action born of heated desire. America's tongue was soon running over Russia's teeth greedily, skimming the ridges as he took in the taste of Russia, the muted moans he was swallowing, how Russia's tongue met his, fighting for dominance, trying to get every little bit of America that he could.

Breathing in tandem, chests raising to meet one another's, America pressed himself against Russia, every nerve in his body raw and overwhelmed.A hoarse, needy moan escaped him as Russia nipped at his lower lip, only to gently suckle at it as though in apology. America fought to hold himself together, lost in a delicious haze and only vaguely aware that he'd somehow ended up on his back, caught beneath Russia. He mewled breathily as hot, open-mouthed kisses dragged down his jaw and neck, following the same pattern he'd made on Russia earlier.

Only when he felt the wanton buck of Russia's hips grinding against his own and the tug of hands at his waistband was he suddenly overly aware of how hot he was, how his blood boiled and leapt and his bangs matted to his forehead, damp and heavy with sweat. He was aware of the hunger that grew in his chest, thick and pulsing against his ribs. But most of all, he was aware of what Russia was expecting.

An abashed shudder ran through him, warm and troubling all at once.

"Wait a sec," America panted, hands moving to meet Russia's, lacing together to stop any further prying.

"What is it?" Russia asked, breath tickling against the hollow of America's throat.

"I don't think─" America's words caught in his throat, a tightly-coiled knot. "This is a good time," was all he could manage. He felt Russia's fingers slip through his own, drawing away with the rest of him, until he was the one doing the straddling, huge and overwhelming, only a heavy, blurred shadow in America's eyes.

In the silence, above even the rapid-fire _thud thud thud_ of his heart, like the constant booming rattle of a tommy gun, America could hear the confusion. He heard it in the way Russia shifted, quiet and restless, almost like a spooked animal, but America was too wrapped up in his own confusion, in how he ached and needed, yet was held back by an almost shy fear. A mix of attraction and anxiety that stopped him in his tracks, reduced him to a nervous and needy mess. He could do nothing to soothe Russia.

"Not yet," America tried again, shaking his head, still-damp hair flicked by the force. "Not tonight."

Russia seemed to understand then, body going rigid and still for a moment as it all registered in his head, then easily, gently, sliding off America, coming to rest beside him on the bed. America's eyes fixed themselves to the ceiling, seeing nothing, but still staring intently, concentrating with all his might, trying to focus on anything _but_ the heat that seared his veins. The bead of sweat trickling torturously-slow down his temple wasn't making it easy. Russia only compounded the problem by reaching out to brush it away. The cool skin against his overheated flesh made America flinch.

"I will go change," Russia said in a sigh, pushing himself up on his elbows, lingering for a moment, as though hoping America would stop him.

"You go do that." America shut his eyes tight, listened as Russia stood, felt the dip and rise of the bed as he left.

The instant America heard the click of the bathroom door being shut, he flung the covers off. Almost as quickly, he dragged them back over his hips. He thought of old people and global warming. He converted measurements of the imperial system to the metric, then back again. He did everything he could to mute his boiling blood and the over-zealous pump of his heart, but it was to no avail.

He kept burning, burning, _burning_. Like wildfire flames on a wind-fanned day, like tar beneath the beating of a baking sun, hot enough to melt into the bed, the sheets, the mattress. He set his jaw and resisted the urge to bring it all to an end by his own hand. He told himself that it'd be okay to let his hand wander of its own accord, skim the sweat-slick skin of his stomach, drag along the jut of his hipbone before continuing to drift downwards. In the back of his head a nagging voice ate away at him, an age-old remnant from his puritanical days, promising endless guilt and eventual Hellfire for even thinking of such a thing. His hands remained at his sides.

A raspy, half-muffled moan from within the bathroom told America that Russia was having no such qualms.

"For Pete's sake," America hissed under his breath, ripping the sheets from his hips and throwing them to the floor as he sprang from the bed. He wasn't going to be able to control himself if things kept up like this.

Snatching his glasses from the nightstand, America stalked from the room. He made for the front door, yanking it open, steeling himself as the outside cold pounced upon him. If anything was going to do the trick, it would be this.

The wind whistled a hollow tune in his ears, louder than the rush of blood, cold enough to dampen the heat. He took a step forward, the icy bite of slushy snow meeting the soles of his feet as he leaned headfirst into the frigid gales that greeted him. His eyes stung from it all, and no amount of blinking could calm them. But America stood, upright and unmoving, until the cold seeped into his bones and rattled his body, until there wasn't a lick of warmth left in him.

He wrapped his arms around himself in a tight hug, waited for everything inside him to blur to a frosted numbness. His eyelids fluttered shut as he found himself fighting to keep from sliding to the ground, the feeling in his feet having vanished, shoulders taking up a steady shake. Just another minute or two and he'd never even be able to imagine what it was like to be warm again. His only problem was that the cold was starting to turn to a burn.

It was different from before. Not the uncontrollable flame of desire, but instead something born of exposure**.** Something born of standing outside in the snow while wearing pajamas. The kind of burn America associated with making snowmen without wearing mittens.

Hobbling back inside, America let the wind shut the door behind him. He kept his head down as he stumbled past Russia's open door, refusing to look in, keeping his thoughts on his own room, his own bed, and his own body. Mainly, how cold it was.

First the fire, now the ice. Both were too much to handle, both appealing when faced with the other. He really needed to find a balance. He belly-flopped onto the bed, hitting the pillows face first, huffing noisily as he managed his way under the covers, fussing like a child. Standing out in the cold was not looking like the great idea it had been to begin with.

The feeling had returned to his feet, but only to tell him that they hated him with a passion that could kill a lesser man. The tips of his ears hurt and his nose felt as though it was shoved up against an icy grindstone. His teeth practiced tap dancing in his mouth, clicking against each other in their uniform rows.

"This blows," he said to his space-heater. "Like, honestly. I can't even tell you."

The space-heater didn't press for details.

America sighed, shifting his head as the arms of his glasses pressed into his skin. His feet kicked at the mattress like a swimmer treading water, anxious and steady, tangling in the sheets as he went. He stared into the darkness of his room, at the cracks in the ceiling and the smudges on the wall, picking out patterns and rudimentary shapes. When a light knock rattled against his door, he ignored it in favor of picking out a half-formed heart in the wrinkles of his sheets.

A sliver of light spilled across the floor as it creaked open.

"America?"

"Hm," America grunted into his pillow.

"Are you warm enough?"

"M'fine."

"Will you be sleeping in here tonight?"

America blinked owlishly. He had, after all, already asked if he could sleep in Russia's bed and gotten the go-ahead. After their little romantic romp, and the proceeding needy awkwardness and rejection, America had assumed there was a silent revocation of that privilege. He wasn't even sure what bed he wanted to sleep in anymore.

"I don't know," America answered honestly. "I just─I really don't." He tried to keep his voice cool and collected, but his words came out in a confused jumble.

The sliver of light grew, flooded the room for a moment before waning again. The springs of the mattress creaked as Russia sat, his hand settling on the small of America's back. A pleasant shiver ran up America's spine, mingling with the shudders born from the cold.

"I'm sorry," America said, "I really ruined the moment back there, huh?"

"There is nothing for you to apologise for," Russia insisted, a certain strength in his tone warning America not to try again. "I am the one who should be doing that." His index finger traced tiny circles against America's skin. "I did not mean to push you."

"Don't worry about it. I think we're both kinda bad at this, y'know, this _stuff._"

Russia's hand moved from tracing circles to a constant petting, traveling the length of America's back again and again in calm, placating strokes. America buried his face in his pillow and took a steadying breath, absently listening to the ticking of his two clocks as his mind seemed to turn to lead, his thoughts heavy and unmanageable. It was too hard to think with Russia so close, all tender touches and quiet questions. He was probably still waiting for an answer as to where America would be sleeping.

"I can't pick," America mumbled.

"Pick what?" Russia leaned in close, head cocked to better hear.

America rolled onto his side. "Where to sleep."

"I understand if you would rather sleep in here," Russia supplied, clearly trying to offer America an easy way out. He sounded neither irritated nor angered, only concerned.

America wrinkled his nose. "I dunno, though. Kinda nippy in here."

"Says the man who stood out in the cold."

America blushed. "I had my reasons."

"You were not thinking of leaving, were you?" The insecure quiver at the end of Russia's words made America's heart clench.

The surreal realisation that Russia was just as shaken by their earlier encounter hit America in the gut, knotted in his stomach and surged through his veins in sick waves. First Russia had happened upon him while he was on the phone to England, had most likely heard their entire heated exchange and promise to meet. Russia's worries might have been offset by their intimate little bout, but being rejected and then finding America on the doorstep, barefoot and staring off into the distance, couldn't have been particularly comforting.

America wriggled under the sheets, working his way to the very edge of the bed. He took the covers with him as he went, like a dragon hoarding gold, pulling everything he could with him as he went, leaving nothing but the mattress in his wake.

"You can sleep here," America offered. "I mean, if you want to."

"I would like that very much," Russia said softly, his words almost lost as the bed took to creaking again, springs sighing under Russia's weight as he lay down on the mattress, his sturdy frame taking up all of the space America had made for him and then some.

Feeling himself teetering precariously on the edge, his body threatening to tumble to the floor, America huddled closer to Russia, hands clumsily working to throw the covers over the both of them. He ended up half-draped over his bedmate, one leg hitched over him and his head resting on Russia's shoulder, curled in the crook of his arm. The covers he gave up on, deciding that the twisted mess they had become would have to suffice.

He listened to the steady thumping of Russia's heart as he closed his eyes, vaguely aware that he hadn't bothered to take off his glasses. Russia's scarf tickled against his nose, and America sleepily wondered when he'd put it back on, but he didn't make a fuss. If Russia would let him keep his security blanket, he would return the favor.

"Let me know if your arm falls asleep," America said through a yawn, feeling muscles flex as Russia's arm wound around his shoulders, urging him nearer.

"I am sure I will be asleep before that happens," he murmured against America's hair before planting a chaste kiss atop his head. "And you will have to let me know if you are too cold."

"Can do," America said, his body molding to Russia's.

He was surprised to find that when he thought about it, he wasn't nearly as cold as he had been. Instead, a pleasant warmth had settled in his chest, slowly spreading through his limbs. It wasn't the same heat as before, the unbearable, blistering hotness that scalded away any thoughts beyond a wanton need, but instead something softer, tamer, more manageable. Something America could get used to.

Letting his mind wander closer to the edge of sleep, America lay back as his thoughts churned lazily. He warded away the remembered pangs of loneliness, of waking to find himself alone with no explanation why, and instead focused on the comfort of the moment. He let out a happy yawn as he felt the flicker of breath against the top of his head and the even thump of Russia's. He counted the beats as he would sheep, further lulled towards slumber by the even rise and fall of Russia's chest, rocking him closer to sleep.

"G'night," he mumbled against Russia's shirt, fingers loosely clutching at the fabric. He desperately tried to straddle the border between sleep and wakefulness, knowing that the morning would hardly be an enjoyable affair.

Russia would have the upper hand, as he always did these days. America had no idea how long Russia had been eavesdropping on him, but he was sure it was long enough to cause damage. Russia, on the other hand, could lie his pants off about where he'd been the whole day and get away with it. America's stomach flipped with anxious anticipation of the arguments he could always see in his head, the strained back and forth that would do nothing but tear them apart.

He didn't realise he was moving about until Russia gently shook him.

"Wake up," Russia softly urged, though judging by how husky he sounded, if anyone needed to wake up it was him.

"I'm already awake," America said, noticing his feet seemed intent on fighting one another in a nervous fit.

"Shh," Russia soothed, "you were having a bad dream."

"But I haven't even gone to sleep yet," America protested, eyes snapping open to stare into the darkness. "I was just, I dunno, being antsy." He blew a breath through pursed lips. "I don't want to fight."

"Why would we fight?" Russia asked, his voice bemused, trailing off into a long, sleepy breath.

"No reason," America said, not wanting to rouse Russia with his worries.

Resigning himself to sleep, America let his eyelids flutter shut again. He slipped so quickly, so deeply into slumber, that he failed to notice the fingers that played along his body, and the weary, saddened sigh that whispered against his hair.

* * *

A/N:

-BAM. Kicked the rating up on this puppy to be safe. Like I said in the last chapter, nothing explicit, but yeah. Bad Russia, keep your voice down when you do that kind of thing.

-Posted a bit early because I want to play Fable III until my brain rots out, or at least until I have to go to work tomorrow.

-Feel free to point out any errors or typos! I know I certainly have a knack for making them.


	18. Chapter 18

America awoke in the dark. With eyelids still stitched together with sleep, he wondered if it would be possible to slip back into an easy slumber. His thoughts and senses were muddled, a hazy, tangled mess. It reminded him of being roused at the dentist after being sedated, too out of it to do much beyond babble and lay about until his wits returned.

He decided to wait it out, let his body slowly bring itself around. In the meantime, he enjoyed a full-bodied stretch, back arching as his toes wiggled. He belatedly registered a certain resistance, one pressed up against his back, not quite as unmoving as a wall, but something with a certain sturdiness that kept him from full stretching out.

Through his sleep-addled mind filtered memories of the night previous. The clearest and most recent being how Russia had ended up in his bed.

America forced his eyes open as he attempted to regain his bearings, though he knew the room would be filled with nothing but blurred darkness. Judging by how his glasses were digging into the skin of his cheek again, he sleepily deducted that he'd ended up curled on his side.

Fitted to his back, molded like a second skin, was Russia. The whisper of his breath against the nape of America's neck confirmed the fact. America let his eyes slip shut, lazily indulging in the lovely sensation of Russia pressed up against him. Every last inch of his body had formed to America's posture, his knees tucked into the back of America's, their bodies engaged in perfect alignment, so close they were separated by the smallest of centimeters.

America wasn't surprised that he hadn't noticed Russia at first. Not with how well he was wound around America. It reminded him of two jigsaw pieces that had finally found one another after being separated for too long. Except even that didn't quite sum it up, because America knew puzzle pieces to always have a seam upon closer inspection, and he was quite sure there was no such triviality separating him and Russia at the moment.

A groggy, contented sigh told America that he was not the only one appreciating the moment.

"Morning, sleepyhead," America said, not at all sure that it was in fact morning.

"And the same to you," Russia replied through a yawn.

Their stomachs rumbled in near unison, abruptly ruining their peaceful moment. America groaned and wriggled beneath the sheets, knowing that once he emerged from their protection he'd be subject to the usual cold of the room. He pulled the covers over his head in a silent act of protest.

Russia seemed to have greater aspirations for the coming day.

"I take it you are hungry?" he questioned.

"Not enough to get my butt out of bed," was America's response.

He didn't want to get up. Getting up would mean moving around, which wasn't going to happen with how boneless he was feeling at the moment. Getting up would mean having to spend time with Russia, and not the nice kind of time either, not like they were now. It would mean confronting the day before, in which, and America was quite sure of this, Russia had been a huge jerk while he himself had done nothing wrong.

But America knew Russia would argue otherwise.

Russia was really starting to act like some kind of overbearing parent. Hiding away clothes he didn't approve of America wearing, monitoring who America interacted with and when, over-involved and controlling in a way America simply couldn't handle. He hadn't, after all, reached the top just to be knocked back down.

So if Russia was going to try and tell him what a betrayal it was to call England, America would do it again. He'd ring him every ten minutes and gossip about nothing. They'd discuss color schemes and celebrities, football leagues and policies. And Russia, well, America wouldn't let him rain on his parade. His tiny, caged parade.

When America finally found himself coaxed into the kitchen, he buttered his toast with a righteous anger. Russia was much less dramatic, deciding instead to eat as quietly as a mouse, apparently aware of the building tension. America found that entirely possible, as he made no effort to stop himself from slamming cupboards or allowing his utensils to assault his breakfast with an intensity seen in seething housewives.

After finishing breakfast, America slunk off without a word, retreating to his room for a hot shower. He spent the majority of it trying to get the blast of hot water to hit every inch at him at once, performing a strange kind of dance that required a great deal of hopping and shimmying about. In the end it didn't do him much good, and he left the bathroom a chilled and shivery mess with floppy wet hair and nothing but a towel around his waist.

Russia was waiting for him on his bed, his head bowed in thought as he twiddled his thumbs. He looked up for a moment, blinking a few times, apparently unsure of just what he was looking at for a moment. But then he smiled, and there was a certain calm in his eyes, like he'd already figured out each and every word he was going to tell America in their upcoming chit-chat.

America looked sideways at him, more than a little suspicious as he gathered an armful of clothes before ducking back into the bathroom. He pulled on his clothes without much thought of how wet he was, realising only too late that that his shirt clung like a damp rag and his pants refused to be put on without a good deal of fighting. He left a trail of watery footprints and a soggy towel in his wake as he went back to Russia.

Russia was waiting right outside the bathroom door as America exited this time, waiting with a towel in his hands. America let out a startled yelp as he saw Russia come at him with the towel, instinctively ducking his head to protect himself. His yelp died as he realised Russia was trying to do nothing but help him dry off, lovingly fluffing his hair and trying to get it to an acceptably dry level. America reared back and stuck his tongue out.

Russia definitely had a game-plan if he was trying to be all buddy-buddy again, and America was keen to find out what it was.

"So we need to talk," America said casually, though his toes tapped against the floor with an anxious rhythm

"We do." Russia took a deep, steadying breath before gesturing at America's bed. "Please have a seat."

"No thanks," America said tartly. He wasn't in the mood to take things sitting down.

Russia gave an exasperated smile as he took to sitting on America's bed, pulling a pillow into his lap before petting it with an almost absurdly affectionate air. He made no move to initiate conversation, or even interaction. America found himself perplexed by Russia's easy demeanor, wary that he was putting up so little resistance to the coming argument. He refused to acknowledge it, even.

America wasn't going to stand for that.

"You left," he sniffed, fully aware that it wasn't exactly the strongest opening.

"I came back," Russia said airily.

"Well, no duh. This is kind of your pad after all."

Russia idly fluffed the pillow. "I see no problem in leaving my home from time to time."

America's retort stuck in his throat, his breath held hostage by Russia's words. He wanted to stomp his feet and whine that Russia _wasn't_ allowed to leave. He had to stay. He was the only company America had, day after day. Without him the house was dark and cold and so empty America couldn't bear it. But then again, Russia had no problem letting America know he wasn't allowed outside the confines of the house.

"You took my shoes," America said calmly, though the grating of his teeth was anything but.

"I did."

"Really? That's it? No, 'Oh, I see where you're coming from," or 'my bad'?"

"Tell me, America," Russia said, a little too coolly for America's tastes. "When did you notice your shoes were missing?"

America scratched at his chin, eyes casting towards the ceiling as he recalled the moment. "I think I was gonna check to see if you were still around or something. Why?"

"That is exactly why I took them. Being the little adventurer you are, I knew you would be looking for me the moment you noticed I had left."

"I think you'd pretty much do the same if I were to bail out."

"True," Russia admitted. "But I have no chance of getting lost. Whereas you are a bit more likely to lose your way."

"I'm not two, y'know, if I get lost I can brave the oh-so-frightening elements for a few hours and trek on back here."

"America, I believe you are forgetting where you are. The elements here are not as tame as your own. One cannot simply decide to camp out in their backyard with nothing but a child's tent and a sleeping bag"

America gave an indignant huff. There was nothing wrong with camping in your own backyard for the heck of it; though he did wonder how Russia knew that was something he enjoyed greatly. He did have a point, though. Having to wait out the night without a clue as to where he was wasn't exactly the most appealing thing he could think of. He'd run back to Russia before just to keep from having to sleep outside in the snow, after all.

"Fine," America consented after a stretch of strained silence. He found his feet had taken to pacing without consulting with his mind. He curled his toes, digging them into the carpet beneath. "Maybe if you let me outside every once in awhile I wouldn't get lost."

"We could take a walk now, if you'd like," Russia offered.

America was running for the door the instant the words registered, yanking his coat from the hanger by the door and grinning from ear to ear when he saw that his shoes had returned. He toed them on as he buttoned his coat up, fingers fumbling in their haste. He didn't even notice that Russia was pulling on his own coat until he felt a hand slipping around his own.

He looked up to find Russia dressed and ready to go, smiling an untroubled smile that made America wonder what he was thinking. Whatever it was, America wanted to think those thoughts as well, wanted to claim the calm confidence Russia always seemed to have for himself. He grasped Russia's hand and made his ways down the steps and into the outside.

The first thing America noticed was that the inside of the house was colder than the outside. The second was that there really wasn't much snow left anymore. What was left crushed wetly beneath his feet as he ventured out with tentative steps, the slushy whiteness beginning to reveal patches of ground.

The Earth beneath the white was dark as the dead trunks of the trees that stretched off into the distance. An occasional weedy-plant managed to scrabble its way through the dirt every now and again, but beyond that there was no sign of living vegetation. A few gray rocks littered the expanse, wholly identical and boring. America wrinkled his nose at the scene.

America shuffled in place for a moment, debating which direction might possibly lead to a not-so-desolate area. No matter where he turned, the outlook was poor. Seeming to sense America's hesitation, Russia took a few steps forward, giving America's hand a gentle tug, a wordless request for him to follow.

America allowed himself to be shepherded, hardly bothering to look up from his feet, finding them infinitely more exciting than the white and the brown and the gray. He worried his lower lip as they trudged along, realising that he'd allowed his argument to drop the instant Russia had offered to take him for a walk.

He shuddered at the idea that this would be the highlight of his day. A stroll through a barren wasteland with a madman. But while the notion bothered him, he couldn't stop himself from enjoying it. The brisk air felt more wonderful with each breath, the kiss of wind against his cheeks irresistibly refreshing. He had to struggle to remind himself that he still had a few words for Russia.

"You shouldn't eavesdrop on people, you know," America muttered softly, halfway hoping that Russia wouldn't hear him.

"If you do not wish to be heard, perhaps it would be wise if you made no noise."

America blinked, brows furrowing as he strung together Russia's words, struggled to make sense of them. "Are you─ are you telling me not to call people?"

"I would never suggest something so absurd." And while his voice was easy and warm, the smile on his lips was irritatingly insincere.

Anger flared in America's chest.

"That's so not the vibe I am getting from you," America said darkly, his feet nipped at the back of Russia's heels. He received a firm tug on his wrist in turn to bring him into step with Russia.

"You are free to interpret my 'vibes' in any manner you would like, however badly you might fare at it."

"You callin' me stupid?"

"No. I am merely saying you do not understand why I would prefer you not be to be on the phone."

America yanked his wrist free from Russia's grasp, folding his arms indignantly across his chest. He kicked a chunk of snow at Russia for good measure. "Okay, you're calling me stupid with fancy words."

"America, please," Russia said weakly, as though pleading with a child throwing a tantrum. "It is not so black and white. I know that you must miss England very much, and many of your other friends as well, but I do not wish for you to be hurt."

America cocked his head to the side. "Hurt? How are they going to hurt me over the phone? Heck, England sounded pretty stoked to hear from me after all this time. I mean sure, he was kind of snippy, but he's _England_. That's like his thing."

"Did you tell him anything about where you are?" Russia ventured.

"As if," America said. "He was all over me when it came to that, but I'm no snitch."

"Good, good," Russia murmured, his eyes lighting up for a fleeting moment. "But about how happy he was to hear from you─"

"Stoked," America corrected sagely.

Russia pursed his lips. "As I said, regarding how 'stoked' he was to hear from you, well, I would not take his warm welcome at face value."

"'Scuse me?"

Russia sighed deeply, his breath coming out in a frosty puff. He lowered his head for a moment, and America watched him from the corner of his eye. He wasn't digging the sorrowful posturing Russia was trying to pull on him, and gave a disinterested shrug of the shoulders and he picked up his pace. With a show of agility that betrayed his size, Russia cut him off, hardly budging when America bumped straight into his chest.

America made to rear back, but discovered himself rooted by his hands, which were presently clutched in Russia's own. He looked up to find Russia dolefully staring at him. America thought it was the closest thing Russia had to his own trademark puppy-dog eyes. It certainly had a softening effect on his entire appearance, and on the heated anger coiled in America's chest.

"What's up, buddy?" America asked, so gently at first he wasn't sure he was the one to say it.

"When a parent is upset with their little one, but also concerned, what do they do?"

"Is this a trick question?"

"No."

"Oh. Uh, I dunno then."

Russia smiled wryly. "I am sure you are more than familiar with the procedure. When you were young, did you ever do something that maybe you should not have? Broken a favored tea pot of England's? Possibly tried to run away?"

"I guess." America had definitely smashed more fine china than most kids did, and there were a few times where he'd run away. He never got far though, as he often defeated the purpose by making sure his house (and England) were always in sight.

"Did he ever promise he wouldn't be mad with you if you told him the truth or came home?"

"Only a hundred times."

"Did he keep that promise?"

A rough bark of laughter escaped America's mouth and he shook his head. It was always the same with England, once his concern for America's well-being had been soothed, he was all nagging tones and wagging fingers. He only kept up the nice act as long as he was worried, but once through the woods was nothing but huffy and off-putting.

"So do you see why I'd rather you not talk to him?"

America nodded. "I guess, but it's not like I've fallen off the face of the Earth like this before. I don't think he'd get all mad at me if he knew I was just ducky."

Russia continued his doleful staring.

"What, you think he'd still be pissed?"

Russia didn't answer. America took to pawing at the snow with his shoes like an anxious stallion. He supposed that England could possibly, feasibly, kind of definitely, be mad as hell once he found out about where America was. Found out how many nights he had wasted worrying himself sick while America was curled up in bed with 'the enemy'.

After a long moment filled with the sounds of America's uneasy shuffling and the slight whistle of wind, Russia spoke. "Shall we return home?"

"Yeah," America conceded, surprised to find that when he looked around, he was quite lost. Maybe Russia had been right to hide his shoes away after all.

Like a horse being led back to the stable, America faithfully followed Russia home. The two of them hardly exchanged a word on the way back, instead happy to simply be close, even in the face of their constant battles. America found himself affectionately bumping his hip against Russia's from time to time, smiling to himself when he received a bump in turn.

Back inside the house, America wearily hung his coat back up, joints still as stiff and achy as they had been the day before. At least the house seemed warmer than the outside now. America stood still for a moment after shedding his boots, not quite sure what he was supposed to do anymore.

He debated whether or not it would be okay to ask Russia where he had been the day before. The curiosity niggled at America's mind, sharp and unignorable. If Russia's reason for leaving was something small and inconsequential, he would have told America already, right? He wouldn't still be sitting on the secret.

Clear-headed and calm from the stroll, America decided that if Russia wasn't going to tell him freely, he'd just have to force it out of him. Every last word about Russia's whereabouts the day before would have to be wrenched from his tongue, one by one. All force and haggling and coaxing.

Seeming to sense America's thoughts, Russia spoke up. "You must excuse me, I have a few letters I need to write." And with that, Russia turned tail and made for his room.

"Not so fast, big guy." America's fingers snagged on Russia's scarf, which he used to playfully reel Russia in. Russia didn't come easily, making an unhappy grunting noise as he was pulled back. "If you're writing a letter to who I think you are, you're going to need my help."

"And who is it you think I am writing to?"

America shot Russia an almost offended look. "I'm no dunce. You're gonna go scribble away to England."

Russia gave America a patronizing pat on the head, smiling a weak little smile. "I would never think you a dunce, America."

"So am I right, or am I right?"

The smile disappeared. "You are correct."

"Okay, well, just so you know and all, he said my letters sound like I have 'a gun to my head'. But hey, we're buds and all, and I like to help my buddies out."

Russia rolled his eyes, or at least, America _thought_ he saw Russia roll his eyes. He wasn't completely sure Russia was even capable of that sort of thing. Kind of like winking. Russia simply didn't do those things. But either way, America was sure it was a signal for him to cut to the chase, and grabbed the opportunity by the horns.

"You tell me where you were, and I'll tell you what to write."

Russia closed his eyes for a long moment, lashes flickering briefly as he mulled the bargain over. America found himself leaning forward in anticipation, his hands absently wringing as he waited.

"Okay," Russia said finally, his voice soft and curious. "I accept your proposition."

"'Proposition'," America snorted sarcastically. "Where I'm from, we call it a 'deal'."

If Russia responded to the jab, America didn't catch it. He only caught Russia's smile, sweet and saccharine and a little stressed. It pulled at America's heart, clenched it in all the wrong ways, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he took Russia's hand in his own, and he squeezed it in all the right ways.

* * *

Russia's apparent readiness to accept America's terms faltered all too soon. America found himself sitting on Russia's bed, legs crossed and hands on his knees, rocking eagerly as he waited for Russia to speak, to fulfill his end. For his credit, Russia seemed to give it a go. His mouth opened and closed a few times, hands gesturing as though to pull words out of the air. America waited patiently, watching the scene unfold, giving an encouraging nod or two before he figured he'd have to do more to get Russia talking. Or at least, get him to stop fumbling. The sight of it unsettled America more than any words could.

"I won't be mad," America promised, then amending when he realised what he'd said, "and I mean that. Seriously."

Russia looked at him warily, as though judging his sincerity. He gave a single nod of his head that seemed to signal that he believed America.

"America, our countries are, ah, 'together' now," Russia began.

"I've heard as much," America said evenly. That was something he tried not to think too hard about these days. His mind refused to wrap itself around the notion the few times it did enter his thoughts.

"And do you not think, when two countries are in such a situation, that they should do all they can to protect one another?"

"Well, yeah."

"Which makes it reasonable that our armies to become─" He hesitated for a moment, eyes dropping to the floor as he searched for a suitable word. "─conjoined?"

America's heart sank to his toes, his features slackening in suit. He was aware of the baffled frown pulling at his lips, but he didn't have the energy to hide it. Russia rose to his feet at the sight, took a step forward with his hands outstretched, reaching for America to pull him into his arms. America's limbs reacted before his mind did, scuttling and scrambling backwards like a crab.

Russia's entire frame seemed to tense, as though he were debating whether or not to lunge, fighting instinct against sense. Sense won out, and his hands dropped to his sides, his chin nearly meeting his chest.

"You promised," Russia said softly, his words edged with hurt. "You promised you wouldn't be mad."

"I'm not mad," America argued. He couldn't feel the words on his tongue, but he could hear them, weak and shaky. "I'm not─ I'm not anything."

And he wasn't. He couldn't identify a single emotion in his being. Not sadness nor madness, and certainly not happiness. There was no jumbled mess of feeling he had to wade through, there was a simply nothing. Only an icy, creeping numbness that licked from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck, that cradled itself against each of his ribs and bled into his nerves.

He realised, with a sickening sort of rush, that he was a ship in a bottle. He wasn't complete, no, not yet, but he was getting there. Piece by piece, moment by moment, Russia was forcing him into the bottle with steady hands and constant carefulness, so slowly America hardly noticed.

But one day he would finish. He would finish and America would never be able to get back out. Not without shattering the bottle, shattering what he'd come to call home. America's head swam the more he thought about it. How far was he in the bottle? Was there even the chance of escape?

He wondered what everyone thought of him, what his name was now (was he still America, was Russia still Russia?), and what else was hidden from him. He had to get out while he still could, if he still could. Even if it hurt to think of leaving, scared him to consider the reactions of others once he returned, he was going to break free before it stopped occurring to him to care. He didn't anymore, really. Not these days.

"How about we get to work on that letter?" America asked, an idea quickly taking shape in his mind. "We can talk about─ about these things later."

Russia's eyes went blank for a moment, and America could nearly hear the gears turning in his head.

"A deal's a deal," America said. "So whip out some paper and let's hop to it."

Mistaking America's cunning for a desire to get things over with, Russia was quick to retake his seat, fetching a sheet of stationary and a pen from his desk drawer. His shoulders hunched, his hand holding the pen above the paper, ready to write any and all words that America supplied with question. Or at least, America hoped that was the case.

He continued to watch Russia, waiting for him to realise he was playing right into a trap. Waiting for him to realise his trust was misplaced, and that he'd be better off with his little forgeries. The real thing, after all, would tell the real story. But Russia didn't realise it. He simply sat, quiet and willing and poised.

America's fingers wound their way into the sheets of Russia's beds, gripping tightly as he kicked up the courage to speak. His tongue peaked out to glide along his lips, worked along the rows of his teeth apprehensively. He took a deep breath and finally spoke.

"Hey Old Man," he started, "I gotta say, I really miss your scones these days."

* * *

A/N:

-_Mmhmm_. That just happened. America just did that. Also, I totally got the idea for that in the shower. Showers are great like that.  
-Sorry for not having an update last week! Work has been work and, well, yeah. I don't have as much time or as much energy as I used to have when it comes to writing, so updates are going to be on the sporadic side. Not super sporadic, just more like every three weeks instead of two.  
-I know I had another note to add, but I can't for the life of me remember what is was.

-Feel free to point out any typos or grammatical errors to win my unending love.

Edit: PSST.

It's been awhile since my last chapter and all, and, yeah. Even longer since chapter sixteen. For anyone who didn't catch it (and I don't blame you since it's been so long), England tells America what to say if he's being held against his will.

It may or may not have been to say how much he misses England's scones.


	19. Chapter 19

Russia didn't send the letter right away, and that drove America up the wall. He found himself reduced to watching Russia with stalker-like intensity, following every movement and act with his eyes. Fixated on Russia's pale fingers every time he thumbed the edges of the paper, turning them from prim and pointed tips to worn down and dog-eared ends. He studied each action with his breath held, his stare intense and unrelenting.

Sometimes Russia would catch him watching. America always looked away then, eyes flickering like fire before darting away to a far corner of the room, staring into shadow as though expecting to find salvation. When he would muster the courage to look back, Russia would still be watching, and he wouldn't stop until America was out of sight.

It became harder and harder for America to stay away though, even when he and Russia were having one of their staring matches. It didn't help that Russia's gaze did nothing to intimidate America. There was no malice behind it, no wary watchfulness, only a tempered curiosity. America supposed that was fair enough. Russia had every right to wonder why America was being such a lookie-loo. Not that he had a right to know.

And with every passing day, America came to look at it as their last in one another's company. Each sunrise he expected Russia to slip away like the night and unwittingly mail the end of their time together. He came to treat all interactions with a certain finality.

With every hug they exchanged, America found himself holding tight, nuzzling his nose against the crook of Russia's neck, indulging in the muted, spiced smell of Russia's scarf. With each kiss they exchanged, America took great care to savor the softness of Russia's lips, memorize how they pressed ever so gently against his own, tasted and tested. He shut his eyes tight every time, not trusting his vision to truly capture the moment.

Russia took to the increase in affection like a fish to water. He never questioned, never asked for explanation. He simply held America in his arms with a kindness that betrayed his reputation, and treated him with a sweetness that America hadn't known since he was a child.

It made him sick to his stomach.

This couldn't last. Sooner or later, England was going to read those stupid words written on that stupid paper and it'd all be over. Game, set, match. But no one would be the winner. The only thing left would be a world filled with cold people. A cold world following a cold war. He'd have a hopping-mad, if not disappointed (and Lord knew that was so much worse) England to contend with, and all around strained relations. He doubted anyone would stop to consider it hadn't been his fault. It always was in the world's eyes.

But if he could find a way to stop Russia from mailing the letter, he could stop things from getting worse. He'd be pulling himself up by his bootstraps and making the best of a bad situation. An all-around American behavior if he'd ever heard one.

The more he dwelled on it, the more appealing it seemed to stay with Russia. What would freedom be with not a soul to share it with? At least right now he had someone to share his confinement. America was even beginning to suspect that Russia, through some impossible means, knew the letter wasn't as innocent as it appeared.

The fridge grew emptier and emptier, as did the cupboards. The truck remained locked in the abandoned barn, the roar of its engine silenced indefinitely. Russia never left the house. Hardly left America's side, for that matter.

America found himself conjuring up daydreams of his return to the outside on an hourly basis. All of them ended the same. They'd take him away from Russia, for starters, which raised the question of just what would happen to him. Was it possible for Russia to be thrown in jail for what he'd done? Tried on the stand and truly convicted? America wasn't sure how the law treated their kind for sure. His only run-ins as of late had been nothing beyond a few speeding tickets.

And what would happen once Russia was gone? A flood of questions, America was sure. They would ask the usual ones, of course. Was he okay? Did Russia try to hurt him? Did he need anything? The kind of questions they asked in movies when they rescued a hostage.

But then the hard-hitters would be thrown at him. Why had he stayed so long? How much did he know? Why hadn't he stopped Russia? When they found out the answers, heard what America had to say, he'd end up the villain. The one who had sat by and done nothing. The real monster.

And so America continued to fret.

* * *

It was one sleepy morning, when the rays of the sun were barely beginning to color the room, that America decided his needed a little more clarification regarding his relationship with Russia, and he was going to be the one to clarify it.

"Y'know what?" he asked, lips moving against Russia's collarbone, or what he thought was Russia's collarbone. Somewhere between falling asleep and waking up, they'd manage to tangle their bodies together, and not in a romantic way. It was more of a 'is that your arm or mine?' kind of thing. Not that America minded, seeing how comfortable he was.

"I do not know," Russia said, his words a groggy whisper. "Enlighten me."

"I'm pretty sure you're my boyfriend."

At that, Russia yawned. He shifted slightly under the covers, and oh, that was definitely Russia's arm, all nice and strong and draping over America. But he had no astonished, or even mildly excited, reaction to America's deductions.

"Okay," Russia said. "But only if you will be mine in return."

"Deal."

They both fell back to sleep without a problem, and when they finally did get up, the exchange wasn't brought up again. America was grateful for that. After further reflection, he had decided he had sounded a whole lot more like a shy twelve year-old that morning than a self-assured man. He fancied himself to be the latter more often than the former, but was humble enough to realise that might not be the case.

* * *

Russia relented out of the blue. He had been staring into the emptiness of the fridge with a bruised apple in one hand and the other resting on the fridge door. America had come up behind him, arms encircling Russia's waist as he rested his forehead between Russia's shoulder blades. He had felt Russia tense, his chest failing to fall after its last rise. But then his muscles relaxed, melted almost. America heard Russia breathe out through pursed lips.

"We will leave in ten minutes," was all the warning he gave.

America was ready in five.

He expected to surprise Russia with his transformation from bed-headed slouch to a halfway presentable man, but when he burst into Russia's room with his eyes bright and clear and excited, he found that Russia was just as ready. He even had his shoes on. America let out a good-natured _humph_ and padded over. Russia's didn't acknowledge him.

Instead, he stood at his desk, the letter in his hands. America was starting to think Russia spent more time holding the letter than he did holding him. It made him want to feed it to the fire all the more.

"I need to finish," Russia said solemnly.

"Finish what?"

Russia looked up, mouthed the words once before he actually said them, and even then there was a dreamy quality to the way he spoke. "The letter."

"Oh," was all America had to say, a hollow and meaningless noise. He went to wait by the front door.

America thought back to when he first dictated the letter. He was sure he'd given it an ending, if only an audible one. Somewhere along the line, he knew his eyes had fallen shut. The words were easier to visualize against the backs of his eyelids, like white chalk on an old blackboard.

Instead of watching Russia write to make sure his words were recorded, America had relied on the soothing scribble of pen against paper. It had been a wonderful white noise to soothe his anxieties, something he tuned in and out of at will. Had he tuned out a little too much, a little too soon? Had America not supplied something Russia was looking for, had he decided to pen it in later?

Apparently so. America's lips twitched before turning down. His fingers absently curled and uncurled like scurrying spider's legs. He stared out the window, counted the blades of grass that had started to wiggle their way up from the ground until his frustration faded.

It took a lot of counting. Enough that America's frustration tangled with his curiosity. He found himself edging back towards Russia's room, found himself peering around the corner of the doorframe, watching fixedly as Russia continued to stare down at the letter, though this time with a pen in his hand.

"Can we go yet?" America asked, a childish whine in his voice.

When no answer came, America sidled his way over to Russia's side. He made no attempt to be subtle as he read the letter, half-mumbling it aloud, skipping from paragraph to paragraph as he tried to find where his words had stopped and Russia's started. He found it near the bottom, a sudden change from an easy flow to a forced casualness that managed only to be awkward.

Then again, America considered himself an expert on how he sounded on paper. England might not be so attuned to the disturbance, especially so far along in the letter. The content itself was hardly alarming, at that. It seemed Russia had, more or less, mimicked America's original ending. It had the same nonchalant wording that said America was fine; happy, even. The signature was a bit off, but America never did have the best one. More of a splotch of chicken-scratch than a name.

After America gave a soft grunt of approval and a nod of his head, Russia folded the letter and slid it carefully into an envelope. It was already addressed, the postage bearing the visage of Johns Hopkins. America appreciated the attention to detail.

They left the house hand-in-hand.

* * *

America tried not to act surprised when Russia parked next to a barbershop, but he couldn't stop his eyes from going wide at the sight of the white pole striped with red. He looked at Russia for an explanation, though he needed none, and Russia's response was to sweetly brush America's bangs from his eyes. They were getting kind of long, America had to admit.

He ran a hand through his hair, wound the locks around his fingers. His bangs slipped back down, tickled against his eyelashes. He thought Russia was looking a bit on the scruffy-side as well, with how his hair had just begun to touch his scarf, one thousand white strands reaching out for the warmth of wool.

America let Russia do the talking once they were inside, content to stare at himself in the mirror after he'd been seated and a cloth bib tied around his neck. He saw in the mirror a floppy-haired young man with strange eyes. They weren't the usual blue he saw, not the color of warm summer skies. Instead they were alive, as though they had an electric current running through them. He didn't like it one bit. He was still thinking about the color when Russia was getting his own hair cut.

Afterward, America had quietly told Russia, "You clean up awesomely."

Russia's ears turned a little pink, and his smile was small but genuine. It hurt America to think that he wasn't going to see it for a long, long time, if ever again, once everything was said and done.

* * *

"I think I'll get one of these, and, oh, one of these too. Probably three of these."

"You may get as many as you like."

America already knew Russia would allow him anything he wanted, and as much of what he wanted. He just didn't know if he'd be able to eat it all before England showed up on their doorstep.

After loading the bed of the truck up with enough groceries to last a lifetime, Russia and America silently climbed back into the cab. The drive to the nearest post office box was both mind-numbingly long, and all too short. Like watching an oncoming car barreling toward you. The hazy moments without understanding, the stretching of seconds as the eyes took in the scene. Then the sudden impact, the realisation of what was happening when it was all too late.

Russia let the engine idle when he'd pulled up, kept his hands on the steering-wheel. His seatbelt made no move to unbuckle itself, and the letter lay upon the dashboard, pale and unassuming. America fiddled with his own seatbelt, thumbing the buckle. He finally pressed it in, the belt snaking away from his waist as he leaned forward and grabbed the letter.

"Be back in a sec," America said, opening the door and sliding from his seat.

He trotted up to the post box without much fanfare. It was blue and boring and kind of shaped like a pod. Nothing to be afraid of, nothing that should make his hands shake. But they shook no matter how much he reasoned with them. He tried to raise an arm to the mouth of the box, but halfway there it fell back to his side. He chewed his lower lip as he calculated how long it would take for the letter to reach England, then how long it would take England to reach them.

Then he wondered how England was even supposed to find them. The letter fluttered to the ground when the answer hit him. He wouldn't. There was, of course, no return address on the letter. The only hint that something was wrong a measly line about scones, but no signs pointing to a location, no discreet mention of 649 Locked-In Lane in Wintersville, Russia. Not that England wouldn't have his suspicions.

But he wouldn't act on those suspicions. England had lived too long to jump to conclusions, considered himself the level-headed one of his peers, the one who acted only when he had concrete evidence, and while the letter was just that, convincing anyone else would be difficult.

America crouched down to pick the letter back up, the shake of his hands having faded to a mere tremble. He cast a look over his shoulder as he stood back up, wanted to see if Russia was beginning to suspect anything, but the glare of the sunlight against the windshield stopped him from getting a good look.

America fed the letter into the mouth of the box before he hurried back to the car. He scooted across the seats, ended up nudging against Russia's side. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, a fist hammering against a door. Something stuck in his throat when he tried to talk, but through sheer determination he managed to talk around it.

"Why can't we be normal?"

Russia's fingers tapped an empty rhythm against the steering wheel. "Because we were not born to be normal."

"You know I'm not talking about that." America rested his head on Russia's shoulder. Russia planted a gentle kiss on top of his head.

"We could never be normal, America. Our history does not allow as such."

"I guess," America said before scooting back to his seat and buckling himself in.

His eyes slipped out of focus along with his mind. He slowly recalled his actions as though they were far off memories, filled with holes and faded snippets. Russia had trusted him, trusted him to dictate a letter he could use. America had used that trust, milked it for all he was worth. And for what? For a measly S.O.S.

SOS. Save our souls. A useless message by this point. There was no soul left to save, only a pretty-faced body floating on the surface. Sunken beneath the waves would be the souls, America's content to reside with Russia's, like buried treasure no man could ever find.

Not that Russia was a guiltless party. He'd manhandled America's trust when it was given to him, picked and chose what to use and what to leave out. America snorted to himself cynically. The two of them were really a pair.

* * *

"Why did you do that?" America asked sleepily. He'd been sitting in an over-stuffed chair watching flames dance in the fireplace for the majority of the night, and it was starting to put him to sleep. The only thing that wouldn't rest was his mind.

"Do what?" Russia looked up from the book he was reading, fingers hesitating as he turned the page.

"Take forever to write the end of that letter."

Russia shut his book, settled it in his lap and gave the spine of it a single stroke with his index finger. "I was thinking," was all he had to offer.

"Can we not play games tonight?" America asked as he stood, his joints cracked as he stretched. "I mean, I guess you can, but if that's how you want to roll I'm going to hit the hay."

Russia made a motion with his hand for America to sit down. America remained standing.

"That promise you made to England," Russia said, "I was thinking of a way to get around it."

America blinked, and then he sat. "Wait, what?"

"I wanted you to stay home."

America scratched at his eyebrow in confusion. There had been no addendum to the letter to excuse him from the next meeting, no redaction of what he had told England. Russia hadn't been able to explain what would be his upcoming absence. Did that mean he wouldn't be absent at all?

"So do I get to come with?" America asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"Yes." Russia didn't sound particularly excited.

"Oh." America wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "When are we going?"

"Next week."

"Oh," America said again. There was a growing numbness in his chest that made it hard to speak. "Oh."

* * *

A/N:

- Oh boy oh boy oh boy _ohboyohboy_.

- Guess what I got? Guess. Have you guessed yet? Yeah? Well, you're wrong. Unless you guessed there's now another piece of fanart for this fic, this one by arielle_mikk on livejournal, in which case you are so spot on you must be a psychic. A really good one, too. You should tell me next week's lotto numbers.

Now view it, and bathe in its _beauty_: huggles-sensei . deviantart. com/art/The-Companion-Doodles-1-186549375

- Feel free to point out any typos or grammatical errors, you will have my unending love if you do so.


	20. Chapter 20

The next week passed in a blur. One day Russia was relaxing by the fire with America, speaking softly as America drifted in and out of sleep, and the next they were on a plane, Russia snoozing away as a child kicked at the back of America's seat.

There were a few things America remembered of the days that had flown by. He remembered that Russia had taken America everywhere with him, though America often opted to remain in the truck. He watched Russia through the front windows of the shops. He bustled about with an easy air, appearing to charm shop keeps with his simple grace.

It was only when Russia strolled back to the car with a few suits draped over his arm that the reality of the situation hit America. Russia had taken America's measurements earlier, his fingers tender as he looped measuring tape around America's waist, quietly noting the numbers to himself. America had known what they were for, but it all felt so far away, like he was living in a perpetual fever dream.

But the fever had broken, and now he was watching a sea of lights swimming below him as the steward's voice came over the speakers, reminding them in a hushed tone to re-buckle their seatbelts and remain seated until instructed otherwise. The kid behind America picked up his zealous kicking a notch. He kicked a headache right into America's head.

"Hey, wake up," America said. He squeezed Russia's hand, the one laying on the armrest. Russia's reaction was minimal. America squeezed again, harder this time.

Russia stirred, eyelids fluttering to reveal glassy eyes. "Oh, hello America," he said with a thick voice.

"Uh, hey." Russia looked really out of it. "Fancy meeting you here, buddy."

That did the trick. Russia straightened in his seat, attempted to stand before the seatbelt bit into his stomach, reminding him to stay put. America snorted with laughter, the irritation that tensed his muscles melting away at the sight of a drowsy Russia trying to get his bearings in a rush. For such a big guy, he sure could be cute.

"Hey, calm down, tiger, you still have a few minutes for shut-eye."

Russia pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, yawning a quaint little yawn. "I think I have slept enough." Which was really true, when America thought about it. Russia had fallen asleep almost before takeoff, a feat America had never once accomplished in all his time flying.

"Have any nice dreams?" America asked conversationally.

Russia turned to look at him, his head cocked at a slight angle as the light in his eyes faded, lost in recollection. "Not that I know of."

"Oh, well, that sucks. I used to have the craziest dreams I swear. Like this one time, oh man, stop me if I ever told you about this one because I'm pretty sure I've told everyone this at least once─"

The intercom cracked to life again, cutting off America's rush of words. "Thank you ladies and gentlemen for flying Aeroflot. We've arrived safely at Aberdeen Airport and you are now free to vacate your seats." The usual, steady babble of instructions on how to free yourself from your belt and the appropriate etiquette for leaving the plane followed.

America and Russia waited until the bulk of the plane's passengers had left before rising themselves. America snagged their overhead luggage, each of them having packed large, musty smelling suitcases, with only enough clothes and toiletries to last them a few nights.

Russia had made clear, in his kind yet frightening manner, that this stay was merely for business. There would be no touring, window shopping, or general tomfoolery. America had agreed readily enough, but when he climbed into the backseat of the cab Russia hailed and noticed a newspaper, he changed his mind.

It wasn't the front page that did it. There were no headlines of impending doom, death, or destruction. Instead was a bland chorus of weather, sports, and talk of the economy. The weather was good, looking to turn bad, and the economy was just the same. America couldn't make heads or tails of the sports, unfamiliar with the teams, players, and coaches that were mentioned.

The normalcy was otherworldly, and his mind numbed at the fringes as he skimmed the articles. It was the horoscope he finally settled upon. Under Leo, it was mentioned that, as seemed to be the case with most horoscopes, the stars were aligning. Sagittarius was in the eighth house of the sun and Mars was attending a dinner party hosted by Ursa Major. Or something like that. The only important part was a short quip in the middle, an encouraging line that advised Leos to take life by the horns and make it your own.

America folded the paper in his lap, his gaze burning into the cabbie's headrest. "I'm gonna go out for a bit," he said.

"When?" Russia asked.

"Just... I don't know. Later tonight."

Russia nodded, his smile wry and tight in the glow of the passing streetlights. The cab pulled up to the curb, the driver announcing the fare in a flat, uninterested tone. Russia duly paid and slid out of the cab, holding the door for America. America took one last look at his horoscope, read the last line. Then read the last line again.

"Old faces are on the horizon."

* * *

The hotel room was discreet, but in a cozy, private kind of way. Not the junkie-hideout, hooker stop sort. Two twin beds occupied the main room, a bare-bones kitchen off to the side. Heavy drapes spotted with flowers covered the windows, and America peeked out from behind them to see the view. It was all slick streets and puttering cars, a line of small shops lining the opposing road.

Two clocks, one for each nightstand, read 20:03. America's body told him otherwise. The plump pillows on the identical beds called to him, and he found himself more than a little tempted to catch a nap of his own. Maybe, when he went out, he could get a cup of coffee. That would keep him up.

Russia put their suitcases on their respective beds. America slunk over and opened his with a soft clicking of metal joints and catches. He tugged out a woolen sweater, one he thought might have been Russia's once with how loosely it fitted him. But that was okay. He dug the look, and the sweater itself smelled like the inviting curve of Russia's neck. He slyly hugged Russia and sniffed at his neck just to make sure he wasn't imagining the scent. America's memory was spot on.

After they parted, Russia shucked his shoes and opted to get in bed early. He didn't change into nightclothes, or get under the covers for that matter. He simply reclined against the pillows and headboard with his hands clasped across his stomach. He looked like he was waiting, but for what, America had no clue.

"Want me to turn the light off?" America said as he trotted toward the door. He paused in the frame to cast a glance back at Russia.

"No."

"Uh, well, okay then. See you in a bit and stuff." America pressed his fingers to his lips and kissed them before blowing the kiss to Russia. His heart skittered shyly, afraid that Russia would ignore the childish attempt at affection.

But Russia raised his hand and caught it, fingers wrapping around the invisible gesture. America watched, waited for Russia to press it to his lips. But instead he held it for a long moment, as though debating what to do with it. His gaze flickered back to America's, his smile small and charming, bordering on playful. The hand that clutched the kiss slowly lowered, further and further until it rested on Russia's chest. He opened his hand and pressed his palm to his heart, eyes never leaving America's.

America's heart did a happy little flop, a coo of a breath leaving his lips. His fingers gave a twitch, eager to rush back to Russia, to fawn over how sweet was. But that could wait until later, America told himself. Now was the time to stretch his legs and grab what little bit of freedom he was allowed. He settled for giving Russia a wink and a smile that promised much more than an air-mailed kiss upon his return. That ought to tide him over for a bit.

America shoved his hands into his jean pockets after he'd left Russia behind, his right hand gripping a crumpled fiver. 'Emergency money', Russia had explained when he handed it to America before they got in the cab. America had nodded dully, inwardly attempting to calculate how much such a denomination could get him. The answer was 'not very'.

But it was enough. Enough for a piping hot cup of joe and maybe a snack to bring back to Russia. An edible thank you for letting America out on his own. Except that America didn't really feel alone. There was a gnawing at the back of his mind, as though part of him had been left behind with Russia, or even that a part of Russia had come with him, a part that was restricting him, smothering him. America hunched his shoulders and shook his head.

The feeling remained, lodged in his head like a bullet.

America did his best to ignore it as he strolled down the street, taking in the shop window before him. A warm light bathed the interior, casting a pleasant glow on those who sat within. Small, round tables were flanked by two chairs apiece, their occupants deep in conversation, the odd patron throwing their head back in laughter. Cups of hot coffee steamed before them.

A set of bells tied to the door jangled as America pulled. A few faces turned to look up at him, their eyes glancing off his face before turning back to their company. America sheepishly bowed his head in apology for the disturbance and made his way for the short line that lead up to the counter. He passed the time by gazing longingly at the various confections that sat behind a glass pane. He shuffled along dutifully as the line dwindled, keeping a respectable distance from those around him, eyes still locked on the sweets.

A small, excited gasp finally caught his attention.

"Oh. My. God. I could recognize that cute little butt _anywhere._" And then America was being spun around, finding himself facing an undeniably familiar, and friendly, face. It was Poland, his smile coy and his eyes shining.

America stared mutely, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Honestly, if I had an ass like yours, I would charge people to look at it. I mean, we charge people to watch plays and look at great works of art, right? It only makes total sense. Oh gosh, but look at me, rambling like an old granny. How are you? I haven't seen you in, like, forever. Isn't that just the hugest travesty?"

Poland swooped in, kissing the air beside America's cheeks. First one side, and then the other. America imitated the gesture as best his could, mind reeling from the scene before him. He should really say something sooner than later. But what?

"Hey," he blurted, "good to see you?" An alarm rang in his head, loud and shrill. _Wrong_. He sounded like an idiot, someone unsure of himself. If he didn't step up his game Poland was going to see through him at any moment. Assuming he already hadn't.

"Well it's _great _to see you. This is so─ so _wow_. You have to sit with me. Seriously, I am not letting you out of my sights until you tell me everything," Poland insisted. His expression froze for a moment, scaring America in that instant that he'd noticed something terribly out of place. But his fear melted when Poland piped up again. "You're like, so in line right now, aren't you?"

America nodded.

"My treat, then."

And before America could stop him, Poland was ordering two mocha chai lattes and a few baked goods for them to share. America followed him obediently once they had their drinks, taking in not a word of Poland's endless, but comforting, conversation. Only when he found Poland sitting across from him, his eyes wide and expectant, his expression open and curious, did America realise he was supposed to be part of it.

America politely sipped at his latte, mumbling words into the mouth of his cup, his response utter gibberish, something intending only to spur Poland on. His ploy worked.

"Yeah, even though everyone else was totally losing their marbles over you falling off the face of the Earth, I totally knew better. You're a tough cookie." He nodded sagely before his smile turned coy again. "Now, spill the beans. You're not going anywhere until I get some juicy details." He took a gulp of his own drink before adding, "Also, that sweater is absolutely _fetch_. Totally loving the retro look, it's so thirties."

A blush crept along America's throat, skirted his jaw. All these compliments were going to his head. And the way Poland was watching him, like he was genuinely interested, it made America want to start talking and never stop. Made him want to give up everything he'd been doing in the past few months, because he wanted Poland to care.

He settled for speaking about what weighed the heaviest on his mind.

"I got a boyfriend," America said delicately, as though expecting Poland to burst into laughter at the idea. But instead, Poland leaned in, elbows on the table, all attentive ears and wagging eyebrows.

"Honey, give me the 411."

"He's─ he's nice. To me at least. Actually, that's kind of the problem. I really like him, but I don't think England would approve. Or anyone else for that matter."

Poland, who openly offered relationship advice to any who wanted it, was in his element. A rather intuitive one at that. "Is he a bad boy?"

"Pretty much."

"Let me guess, he's different around you? A real sweetheart?" Poland looked like he'd heard this predicament a million times.

"Mmhmm. I never knew he could be such a great guy. But, I don't know, he's so different from what I thought he was. It's like─ okay, hear me out. You know those sea anemones? The ones that sting everything that comes near them."

"Oh, absolutely. They have those little clownfish friends, right? They are, like, totes cute."

"Okay, so yeah, this is how I've been looking at it. I'm the clownfish to his sea anemone."

"Oh my God," Poland said, his jaw went slack with disbelief.

"What?"

"You are _so_ in love."

America choked on a bit of biscotti he'd taken to nibbling on. This seemed only to cement Poland's assumption, and his eyes twinkled. He ran a hand through a curtain of fair hair, flicking away the very ends. But then his smile faltered, fell at the edges.

"What kind of bad guy is he?" Poland questioned.

"What?" America picked crumbs from his sweater with an unsettling intensity.

"Is he, like, a wannabe bad guy? You know, the kind that's really a big kitten." Poland giggled to himself before continuing on a more serious note, "Or is he way bad?"

"Bad to the bone?" America offered.

"Totes."

"Uh, hm. I guess. Kind of. He was worse in the beginning. But he's better now."

"Really? Like, for serious?" Poland said. He didn't look particularly convinced. He reached over the table to rest a hand on America's forearm, with a fluid subtlety, America leaned back in his chair, leaving Poland's hand to fall on the tabletop where it made a silent retreat.

"For super serious," America insisted, perhaps a bit more flamboyantly than he needed to. "So maybe he was a creeper at first, but he's a nice guy now. He takes care of me and cares _about _me. And I care about him, too," America said. He felt the puff of his cheeks as he pouted, fisted his hands into his sweater.

"I'm not saying you don't care about him, honey," Poland placated, or tried to. "But don't you let anyone walk over you, ever. You're better than that. Don't let no man hold you back." He wagged his finger at no one in particular. "If he lays a hand on one of your pretty little hairs on your pretty little head you leave his ass."

A surge of surreal sickness crashed into America's stomach. This wasn't the friendly get together Poland had originally passed it off to be. Poland was one of _them_. Finding out what he needed to know under the pretense of being a caring friend. But Poland didn't know what it was like to be alone, not like America did, because he had Lithuania.

And they were normal. Normal like America and Russia never could be. They'd had too much bad blood between them. All the scuffles and arguments and drag down, knock out fights they'd exchanged had pushed them past that. But Russia had known better, found a way to move past all that, he'd _made_ it work, even if their relationship would never slip into normalcy. America was going to hold fast to what he had with every ounce of his being.

"I have to go," America said, gripping the edge of the table as he stood. Poland remained seated.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. See you around and junk." And then, with his manners biting at him, "Thanks for the drinks and grub."

Poland started to say something, but America was already hurrying out the door by the time he registered it. Not that he was running away from Poland or anything. He didn't have anything to run from. He just didn't need their judgement weighing on him, their disapproval of his decisions and who he'd chosen to be with. He only needed Russia.

That brought a smile to America's face, the thought of Russia. He still had that feeling that he'd never really left him back in the hotel room, it was almost haunting him now, dogging his every step. As though he couldn't even get away from Russia when he wanted to.

But he didn't really want to get away from Russia anymore. Russia was familiar, safe, and mostly predictable. Maybe a little overbearing, but that seemed to be a trait people sported these days, and Russia's was simply more pronounced.

America shook his head and sighed, tossing a glance over his shoulder. He thought he saw the pale shimmer of Poland's hair from beneath a streetlight and picked up his pace, ducking and weaving out and in of alleyways. He paused after a few interrupted minutes of dodgy behavior, cocking his head to better hear if anyone was following him.

All he heard was the low rumble of traffic and the ambient chatter of bar-patrons milling about the street. No clicking of cute boots against pavement. America's shoulder slumped, his apprehension bleeding out. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, listened to the idle chatter of those around him. His ears picked up line after line of useless conversation, hopping from one to the next, discovering that everyone had their own personal gripe.

"He's going to be there tomorrow, you'll see," one person was saying. America cracked an eye to see the speaker. He had his back turned to America's vantage point in the alley. All he could make out was the man's too-stiff posture and what appeared to be a companion.

"I know," said the companion. "He won't break his promises."

America's heart sunk to his feet.

"That's right," said the first man, "because heroes don't break promises. He always did that, the silly prat. Heroes don't do their own laundry, heroes don't bum fags off of strangers. Well, I'm no expert on heros but I'm bloody well sure they don't go missing too."

"Mmhmm, yeah," Canada said. He appeared to be taking on the part of a well-meaning but uninterested confidant.

"But he'll be there. He said so in his post," England said. There was a lazy slur to his words that told America he'd had more than enough to drink. America edged closer to the mouth of the alley.

"Mmhmm," Canada said again, with the practiced inflection of interest revealed that he'd been told a hundred times already, but hadn't the heart to stop England from telling him once more.

England raised his head, it having fallen to his chest after his previous announcement, and blew a cloud of smoke out of his mouth. He sniveled, and his head dropped again to his chest.

America's gaze lost its focus as he stared at the smoke, his attention dissolving along with it, reforming into a memory. One of the last times he'd seen England they'd shared a smoke outside a stuffy conference building. They'd agreed, spur of the moment, that this cigarette, of all cigarettes, would be their last. Smoking was bad for you, and while you looked cool, having yellow teeth and stained fingernails kind of ruined the image. Also, everything you owned smelled kind of weird and bad, like it was soggy with the stench.

Their pact lasted all of four hours, unanimously ending as the daily meeting was adjourned for lunch. They exchanged no words to come upon the agreement, only observed one another's clenching and unclenching fists, their mirror expressions of foul-temperedness. Such things were common during meetings, but they knew, at an intrinsic level, the immediate cause.

"This was your bloody idea wasn't it?" England had hissed, stalking down the halls so quickly America had to jog to keep up.

America shrugged. His head hurt too much to remember who had originally had the idea, but he held his tongue.

"I'm going to teach you something rather daft," England informed him. "Useful, but daft."

America nodded and kept pace, hardly noticing when England ushered him into the restroom. He did, however, notice when England marched into a stall and left the door hanging wide open as he stood atop a toilet seat. He watched silently as England produced his lighter and a cigarette.

"You can't smoke in here," America said. "There're probably smoke alarms and junk and it's gonna stink up the place."

England ignored America's protest. His only interest was watching the flicker of flame licking at his cigarette. America crossed his arms and watched, brow furrowed in irritation. England was always on him to act like an adult, which apparently meant having no fun _ever_. Not even when you were in your own house. And then there was the fact that England was standing on the toilet like a complete weirdo.

But then England exhaled, a sated smile on his face, his head tilted so that he breathed into the vent on the ceiling. When he looked to America, eyes clear and clever, he made sure to take a long, drawn-out drag. He was the picture of nicotine-enhanced happiness.

"You," America said, "are a genius."

A minute later, he was standing in the stall next to England's, having taken to standing on the toilet as well with a cigarette in his hand. With each puff of smoke, the air vent whirred and worked, and, most importantly, cleaned. America and England passed their smoke break with hushed, giddy whispers, America congratulating England on his brilliant idea, and England, in true form, rejecting the compliments with his usual self-degradation.

America thought that it was heaven. Like being in high school, breaking the rules with every chance of being caught. But more importantly, like high school on TV. Where the worst that ever happened was you were grounded, or couldn't go to a dance. Not a world where the worst that could happen was that it might end.

America had wanted to hold onto that moment forever, and so he did. Even now.

And America really had stopped smoking that day. It was actually a kind of nice change, once the cravings went away. Maybe he had gotten a bit soft because all of a sudden food tasted more magnificent than it ever had (which was a shock in and of itself). But seeing England smoking like a chimney made America want to march right over and demand a cigarette of his own. Just one, of course, for old time's sake. Even if that wasn't how things worked. Just one, small exchange with England. But again, things didn't work that way. There could be no single smoke, no simple conversation. America knew himself well enough to say that one was never enough.

America sighed, watched his breath become white fog that bloomed. His shoulders shuddered, his head tilting back of its own accord as he looked to the sky. A thin sheet of clouds stretched across it, patchy and weak. Stars glimmered softly, white pinpricks dotted against the black, the moon barely a sliver.

But his eyes refused to focus on the world's ceiling for long, and soon they were straying back to England and Canada. He couldn't have only one look. Breathing deeply, America did his best to pull his attention back together, stitching himself back together from the inside out, ideas and thoughts being organized and filed away for later reflection. His only intention now was to inch closer, to be a curious creature observing from the shadows.

That was when the hands grabbed him. Like serpents, one skimmed along his chest before yanking back, barring him from moving forward. The other was quick to capture his mouth, suppressing the yelp that rose in America's throat.

Adrenaline licked through America's veins as his eyes widened in surprise, a sharp bolt of alarm crackling through his spine, lighting every inch of him on fire. His muscles tensed, coiled, readied themselves to throw off his attacker.

Except he wasn't being attacked. Instead the hand on his chest was trying to coax him, pulling him backwards, easing when he clumsily shuffled to appease it, his back bumping against the chest of the person behind him. Then came the breath tickling against the shell of his ear, not hot like he expected, but instead tepid, a low hushing noise meant to calm. The fingers of the hand on his chest feathered, stroking soothingly.

The relief that blanketed America's frayed nerves was instantaneous, a sudden, welcome flood. He still tried to bite Russia's hand though, if only out of startled annoyance. Russia's answer was to chuckle softly and hold America closer, the hand on his mouth falling away to wrap around his waist, to embrace and withhold him all at once.

"You must forgive me, I did not mean to upset you," Russia said, his breath curling around America's ear once again, his nose nuzzling against the curve fondly.

America sucked air between his teeth, concentrated on calming the fluttering beat of his heart, his body feeling as though it was skewed from his mind, however fractionally, everything shaking and still at once. He battled the mix of irritation, fear and the absurd notion of safety.

He thought he could nearly feel the beat of Russia's own heart, thumping wetly against his back, strong and unceasing, nearly in tandem with his own. But then Russia stirred slightly, and the sensation was gone. America shivered in the night air, doing his best to mask the action by squirming a bit, as though anxious. He looked to see if England and Canada had heard the commotion, though he couldn't imagine they'd made much of one.

The two of them were gone.

"No," America said, his voice a disbelieving rasp.

He faintly registered another hushing noise, the faint sensation of a kiss being pressed against the back of his head, being dragged even further back. He didn't put up a fight. All the thoughts he had so carefully stored away exploded in his mind, whipped up a flurry he couldn't decipher. Only one stood out.

This was _wrong._

With a sudden, frenzied lurch, America tried to break free. He lashed out as best he could, straining to throw Russia off. But Russia held fast, apparently prepared for the retaliation, ready to counter. In a blur of struggling limbs and heavy breaths, Russia wrestled America against one of the alley's walls, or at least, America thought that was what happened.

But then he felt Russia bring his hand up again, felt it cover his mouth for the second time. This time though, he pinched America's nose shut as well. He was still making soothing noises, urgent hushes and quietly whispered words, but America's body reacted the instant he tried to breathe in and found nothing except the burn in his lungs.

His hands shot out in front of him with an unbridled force, his head jerking back, desperate for air. He heard a low, sickening _thunk_, and then stars burst in his eyes as his head connected with the wall. He dropped to his knees, teeth grinding, he instinctively put a hand to the back of his head, gingerly touched his scalp before a red-hot spot of pain flared beneath his touch. A squeaky whimper escaped his lips.

He waited for Russia to grab him, waited to find himself being smothered into silence again. When nothing happened, and the bright bursts in his eyes faded, he glanced around to see what had become of Russia. He found him sitting against the opposite wall of the alley.

His eyes were dimmed by a thoughtless glaze, unfocused and uninterested. America watched with a quite intensity, his own mind still reeling. His attention faded in and out, zoning in and out, drifting from the brick wall Russia was settled against, to the way his scarf trailed down his shoulder and ended on the cold concrete floor, resting in a shallow puddle.

A small, unrattled part of his mind dutifully informed America that he was the one that had disarmed Russia. But it was a vague, far away idea, as though it belonged to someone else. Too indistinct to stay settled in his head. He was much more focused on the throbbing pain that radiated from his scalp, and a primitive part of him felt the incessant urge to touch it again, but his hands argued against it, instead shakily pushing him back onto his feet.

America leaned against the wall once he was upright again, having decided that was enough progress for now. He watched Russia instead, who appeared to be slowly but surely regaining his wits too. His eyes were bright again, gleaming, almost. He'd pulled his scarf out of the puddle and gave it a cursory ring, and finally he'd taken to attempting to stand as well.

"Let us not have a repeat performance of that," was all he had to say, but America didn't have enough sense to leave it at that.

"Did you just try to strangle me?" And then, belatedly, "Did I just kick your ass?"

Russia shot America a hard look. "Neither of those events took place." He rubbed his hands against his cheeks, as though he were trying to warm his consciousness back to life.

"Well I'm pretty sure you did something, and then so did I." Even if it had been instinctive, America was sure he'd given Russia the mother of all pushes. Possibly the _daddy_ of all pushes. That wasn't a gift the average Joe could survive, and many a nation weren't quick to recover from it either.

"You were going to make a mistake, America," Russia said, he was moving closer, edging forward. America got the distinct impression that he was being cornered.

"So you went ahead and made one yourself?"

Russia paused, seeming to weigh his conversational options. "Yes," he said.

America frowned. He'd been expecting more of a fight than that. Of course, knocking Russia against a wall was probably a good way to let him know who was boss, at least for a few hours. America could kind of see why Russia was known for going after people with pipes if it got him his way so easily.

America shook his head. It was better not to reason with Russia's methods, let alone consider them applicable to his daily life. "How did you know where I was?" The question itched at America's tongue in the way that questions that always went unanswered did.

"I simply did."

The itching increased. America bit his tongue in an attempt to stop it. He ruminated on the feeling he'd harbored all night, the one that he was stuck at Russia's side. He thought back to the hotel room and how compliant Russia had been with his sudden announcement that he was going to go out. How Russia had merely flopped on the bed, not bothering to get under the covers, turn on the TV, or really do much at all.

It wouldn't have been hard for him to sneak out after America had left.

"Did you─ did you _follow_ me?" America asked. A part of him knew this was the truth, but a smaller, more fragile part didn't want to believe it. They were supposed to be trusting each other, not stalking. Or escaping, for that matter.

Russia shrugged in a way that said, "Yes, and what of it?"

"Are you─ What? _What?_ You're kidding me, right?"

Russia shook his head.

"Okay, fine." America pinched the bridge of his nose. He reminded himself that Russia was a weirdy at times and this shouldn't be totally unexpected. At least Russia didn't appear angry about it, which was odd in and of itself. He wasn't even wearing one of those creepy grins he was so good at.

He stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot every few moments, his hand repeatedly going to touch his scarf. His expression was ambivalent at best, still touched by a certain blankness. America wondered how hard he'd knocked Russia against the wall to do that to him.

"I forget your strength sometimes," Russia said, seeming to read America's thoughts.

"Uh, yeah. Me too." America scuffed his foot against the ground. The air was suddenly charged with an intense awkwardness, one that weighed too heavily on his tongue for him to say much. He rather liked that Russia wasn't about to flip his lid, but it left him at a loss for what to do.

Russia was kind enough to tell him.

"We should head back," he said. He held out a hand to America, a gesture of good will. America shyly took it, his gaze averted the entire time, and let himself be lead out of the alley.

When Russia flagged down a taxi, America was quick to slip inside and keep his mouth shut as Russia rattled off the address of their room. America huddled himself up against the window on his side, his forehead leaning against the glass. He kept his hands clasped in his lap, his shoulders hunched and his appearance small. Regret was growing in his mind, along with a whole lot of 'if's.

If he hadn't left, Russia wouldn't have followed him. If he hadn't stopped to snack with Poland, he wouldn't have had to run off and find himself within throwing distance of England and Canada. If he hadn't tried to say hello to them, Russia wouldn't have grabbed him and gotten himself hurt.

A small voice bit at America's heart, told him that it wasn't his fault in the least, but it was so, so much easier to place the blame on himself. He could reason with it then. After all, there was no reasoning with Russia. He was an odd man with odd whims and behaviors, and America knew he'd never figure his eccentricities and emotions out. He could even be fooled at this very moment, mistaking Russia's calm appearance for the truth, while underneath**,** Russia was ready to thrash him.

America couldn't help but ask.

"You mad?" he said, daring to look to Russia.

If there was any hidden anger, Russia certainly didn't betray it. "No."

"Not even a little bit?"

Russia stared out the window. "I have come to expect this of you."

America frowned before turning his gaze back to the reflection of yellowed streetlights on water-slicked pavement. There had been the smallest edge of disappointment in Russia's voice when he spoke, something cold and distant and quiet, but it was there.

For the rest of the ride home, America kept to his side of the cab and continued to reason away, ignoring his own mental protests.

* * *

When they got back to their hotel room, America grabbed his pajamas from his suitcase and dashed into the bathroom. He took a long time changing, peeling off one layer at a time, folding each article carefully, and shimmying his legs into warm flannel pants. They weren't quite his size, but neither were the shirts. America didn't remember packing them, didn't remember packing much in the first place, but he thought they might have belonged to Russia once like the sweater.

America padded out of the bathroom to find Russia in the middle of putting on his own pajamas. His back was to America, and he was in the process of pulling his shirt over his head. His coat lay in a rippled pool at his feet. The pale skin of his back was dappled, however lightly, with growing patches of dark reds and rich purples. America made a short, startled noise and looked away.

He caught, out of the corner of his eye, the blurred movement of Russia clapping a hand to the back of his neck. All too late he realised Russia wasn't wearing his scarf, and the opportunity to catch a glimpse has passed. America curled his toes into the sparse carpet of the floor, fingers flexing anxiously at his side. He looked up when Russia cleared his throat.

He was still missing his shirt. America cocked his head to the side, like a confused dog.

"Forgetting something?" he said, trying his hardest not to ogle. It was quite hard, considering how Russia's chest curved and angled in the most pleasing of ways, and how inviting his skin looked to the touch. America's imagination rushed to fill his mind with flashes of Russia's back, effectively turning any kind of desire into a sad heap of guilt.

That didn't stop him from staring in the end.

Russia raised an eyebrow, but otherwise his expression was perfectly serene. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"What? As if." The words spilled out of America's mouth before he could stop them, a heated surge snaking through his body.

Russia smiled a knowing smile, a barely perceptible turning of the lips, an alluring challenge without words. America's common sense took a back seat to his pride, as it so often seemed to. His hands went to the bottom of his shirt, tugging it upwards in one swift motion. He flung the flannel to the floor and puffed out his chest.

"See? Not uncomfortable. In fact, this is super comfortable. I should practically sleep without a top on every night."

"I would not object," Russia said. He was already pulling back the covers of his bed. America went to his own, leaving his shirt to lie in a crumpled heap on the carpet.

America tried not to think about the chill of the room. He was quite sure it hadn't been there a minute ago, when his blood was hot with determination. He cast a forlorn glance at his shirt, a pout on his face as it made no move to come to his aid. He settled with crawling under the blankets of his bed and pulling them up to his neck.

The mattress was dry and scratchy. It clawed at his bare flesh, gnawing no matter how much he tossed and turned. America snuck a peek at Russia, curious as to how he was faring. Russia was well at ease, laying flat on his stomach with his arms hugging his pillow, where he had hidden his face. The sheets were bunched at his waist, and his entire form rose and fell smoothly with each breath.

America turned the lamp on his bedside off, barely noticing the time. It told him it was only half past ten, but America's entire being begged to differ. He wondered what the time difference between England and wherever-the-heck Russia was. Probably a million, billion years. It certainly felt like it.

America closed his eyes and waited for Russia to turn off his own bedside lamp. The throbbing on the back of his scalp consumed most of his bedtime thoughts, burned enough to keep him from falling into a sweet slumber. The biting of the bed wasn't helping matters, either.

When Russia failed to turn off his light, America couldn't help but strike up conversation, and his eyes refused to remain closed any longer.

"You sleepy, big guy?" he said conversationally.

"Yes."

America propped himself up on his elbow. "Something keeping you up?"

"Yes."

"It is─ is it your back?" America cringed to himself as he spoke the words. If the ache in his head was keeping him up, of course Russia's back would have him wide awake most of the night.

Russia said nothing. America's stomach curdled into a cold, clotted mess, sour and heavy.

"I didn't mean to," America said weakly. "It was an accident. I got all kinds of freaked when you grabbed me."

Russia sighed. Then he sighed again. Each sigh pushed America further and further into his nervous shell, and his muscles quivered with a frenetic energy. On the third sigh, America sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Okay, for real. I'm seriously sorry." The words felt heavy and awkward against his teeth, like something that should never be said. But it _had_ to be said. Heroes didn't hurt people, not even the bad guys. Especially the bad guys.

Heroes were better than that.

"America," Russia said, his tone was flat and even, too calm to be natural. "Do you think I meant to scare you?"

America blinked owlishly. He hadn't stopped to consider that, instead falling under the almost instant assumption that Russia was being, well, Russia. He wasn't exactly an ace on not being scary, in fact it was kind of a forte, but if America had learned anything from the ridiculous amount of time they spent together, it was that Russia never intended to come off that way.

"No," America answered honestly.

"And I am sure you did not mean to hurt me."

America scrubbed his face with his hand. Russia's assurance that there were no hard feelings did nothing to ebb the guilt. Whether or not America had meant to hurt Russia was unimportant, what mattered was that he had, that despite the great lengths we went to temper his strength, it wasn't enough. He couldn't let the incident drop as easily as Russia had.

"Let me make it up to you," America wheedled. His feet had found their way to the floor, and before he knew it he was standing, taking the few short strides to Russia's bedside. He looked at everything but Russia's back.

"There is nothing to make up for."

"There so is," America said. "If there wasn't, you'd already be asleep, or at least have your light off."

Russia seemed to contemplate this for a moment, nodding solemnly at last.

"Push the beds together."

"Huh?"

"Does my bed look big enough to fit the two of us? Or yours, for that matter?"

America scoffed good-naturedly. "As if. I wouldn't be surprised if I rolled right off in the night."

"Then a bigger bed would be a benefit to all parties."

America smiled, his first since being grabbed in the alley, and while it was weak and watery, it was genuine. "Okay," he said. "I can do that."

With a great deal of pushing, shoving, pulling, and, in the case of one alarm clock, breaking, America managed to shove his bed against Russia's. He thought he heard the noise of someone banging their fist against a wall, a universal code to pipe down, but he ignored it.

He stood back to admire his handiwork. It wasn't perfect, what with how the footboards of the beds didn't match up, but it would work well enough for one night. And Russia didn't seem to mind the imperfections. He merely waited with a steady, quiet gaze, watching America's movements as though looking for something deeper, searching for a hidden clue to his actions.

But then his gaze met America's, and it was like his eyes were hooking into America's heart, desperately trying to root about, searching for what, America knew not. The exchange, one-sided and abrasive, sent a raw shudder through America's body. He found himself shying away like a spooked horse, taking skittering steps backwards. It wasn't particularly pleasant to be looked at in such a fashion, no matter who was doing it.

"America," Russia said sweetly. He knew he'd been caught, the look he'd been giving. "Surely you will not be sleeping on the floor."

"Uh, well, no." America rubbed his forearm with one hand, very aware of his lack of clothing, and even more sure that Russia would make out every single goose bump that lined his flesh. Russia could probably make out each hair that was standing on end, if he really tried.

"Then what are you waiting for?" Russia prompted. He pulled back his covers and made a friendly beckoning motion with his hand.

America assented, padding over to the bed and dutifully crawling beneath the sheets, he stayed to his side as much as possible. Russia made that particularly difficult by annexing most of America's bed, silently claiming it as his own as he sidled closer and closer, until America could sense the end of his bed and the beginning of the sudden drop he was bound to face if he didn't start pushing back.

"Russia," America whined, high and childish. "What is up with you tonight?"

Russia stopped encroaching. "Is it a crime to want to be close to you?"

"In some countries, yeah," America muttered. And then, after seeing Russia's solemn ─ if not sad─ expression, America added, "But I know you can't help it."

When the remaining light was extinguished, America let out a weary breath. His eyelids felt so very, very heavy. His mind continued to spin, groggy with exhaustion, yet wired to think all the same. His thoughts rolled about in his head, growing as they moved about, like a snowball picking up more mass the further it traveled until it was steaming ahead, a giant mess of packed snow.

America lay on his side, with his back to Russia. The low noise of traffic filled his ears, the constant purr of puttering motors, the open and close of car doors, people coming and going. It slowly filtered away, became nothing more than a honk in the distance, or the faraway wail of a siren. The only thing left to listen to was Russia's steady breathing, but America felt it more than heard it.

He felt it in the way it licked along the back of his bare neck in repetitive puffs. If America didn't know better, he would have thought Russia had gotten even closer, especially considering the hand that had settled on his waist. Yeah. Russia definitely hadn't been within arm's reach before.

"The jig is up," America whispered drowsily.

"Who is doing a jig?" Russia said. He sounded wide awake.

"You are." America snuffled, rubbing at his nose for a moment. "With your hand. And your breath."

"Ah, yes. I suspect I may doing something with those."

America tried to laugh, but the sound was uneasy and hollow. A certain tension still hung in the air, a stuffy cloud that reminded America of its presence with every breath he took. It overlayed each thought America had and was a barrier between all interaction with Russia.

Russia, bless his icy heart, was trying his hardest to ignore the unsettled quality that permeated the air. He seemed to take being called out as an invitation to close in on America, one he readily accepted. His body had moved closer, hardly a hair's width away from America's, his lips soft and gentle as they tenderly kissed the back of America's neck.

A pleasing electric jolt slithered down America's spine, and he found his back arching to meet Russia's skin, a driving hunger for warmth and contact kicking in. It helped to fog America's mind, blot out the discomfort that roiled in his stomach.

Soon Russia was nipping playfully at America's skin, his tongue occasionally tasting, tickling America and pushing him into small fits of giggling, all while his body squirmed excitedly. He was mildly disconcerted by how his thighs had taken to rubbing together, and even more so when found Russia's hand sliding along his hips, but the heated waves of pleasure that lapped at his frayed nerves were too much a distraction.

America relished each centimeter of bare flesh that pressed against his back, his skin warming Russia's, and Russia in return rewarding him by dotting more sweet kisses along the nape of his neck, laughing lowly against the knob of a vertebrae when America keened weakly, the noise stuck in his throat.

In a moment of clarity, America found he was the kind of guy who could really appreciate a nice bout of make-up sex. Not that he'd ever had it, of course, but that was beside the point. The act, the bridging of feelings of frustration and anger and betrayal, placating them with kisses and touch, tender acts with hints of dragging nails and biting teeth, had a certain glamour that America couldn't deny.

It was a shame that hadn't slept together already, America thought as his mind wound down under the touch of Russia's hands, because they could have had make-up sex. But having make-up sex on your first go would be plain old _weird._ It was best saved for later, like dessert.

Make-up makeout sessions would have to suffice, America decided as he rolled to face Russia. The movement was awkward, a heavy dragging of limbs and muscles further encumbered by Russia's apparent unwillingness to take his hands off America.

"Would you lay off for like, three seconds?" America said under his breath, shifting and squirming to get himself comfortable.

He ended up with his face hardly an inch from Russia's, close enough to kiss. So he did. Russia laughed softly and returned the favor, and America felt driven to one-up him. The innocent smooches quickly devolved, stripped down to rough, burning exchanges by their competitive nature.

There was the taste of teeth and nails America had been thinking about, along with hands that pawed at his chest, hands that rubbed and petted and playfully pinched. America broke into fits of weak tittering again when the pads of Russia's fingers would skim his bare skin, the edge of his fingernails grazing a trail that left America feeling weak and fluttery, unable to think beyond the singing of his nerves and the lovely haze that had overtaken him.

America reveled in the affection, in the way Russia held him just so, in how he gingerly licked along America's lips, a gentle flick of his tongue follow by the nibble of his teeth. When America was able to pull himself away, he was panting like a dog, his body flushed and tingling. He barked out a laugh, though he knew not at what.

He gazed at Russia as they both regained their bearings. Russia was smiling, his eyes shining in the low light of the room like a cat's eyes, a purple gleam in the darkness. America shivered and tried to hide a smile of his own. He made no effort to distance himself from Russia, and instead shimmied closer until he was bundled against Russia's skin, his head tucked under Russia's chin.

Russia planted doting kisses along his hair, his nose nuzzling at short intervals. America considered operation makeup make out to be a success for the both of them. His own nerves had calmed considerably, coated by endorphins, his thoughts all but gone as sleep fought to overtake him. Russia seemed to have relaxed too, the kisses and nuzzling trailing off slowly until the only thing that remained was again the quietness of his breathing, his chest rising and falling against America.

Their little romp had put things in a new perspective as well, given everything a nice, rose-tinted color. While in their silence, their near-slumbering states, they were so similar, America knew better than that. It was getting hard to tell the difference between the two of them, harder to differentiate his own individuality from Russia's, the line between himself and Russia becoming the blurred smudge of a cloud melting into the sky.

He reminded himself again and again that Russia wasn't like him. America knew that giving smiles and hugs and behaving sweetly was how to get attention. Russia, with his history, had learned behaviors. He didn't _understand._ To him, attention was attention; he didn't differentiate between negative or positive. If cruel snipes and goading words got someone to talk to him, to look him in the eye, that was what he'd use. Just like how he'd made a habit of using certain measures to quiet people down.

He'd try the approach he'd witnessed others using, no doubt. Placating murmurs, reassurances in the form of gentle hums and petting, but somewhere along the way he'd learned that the quickest, most effective way to shut someone up was to force them into unconsciousness. America shuddered when he thought about how Russia would have been taught such a thing. The possibility that he'd been taught through first-hand experience clouded America's mind.

The important thing, America reminded himself, was that Russia was _better_. His first attempt to quiet America had been the more normal of the two, the correct course of action. He was calm and poised, and while he'd clamped a hand over America's mouth, it had been a cautionary thing, nothing cruel or forced. Something done as a precaution.

Russia wasn't bad on purpose. He did what he had to, what he thought would keep America close.

The steady _thump thump thump_ of Russia's heart eventually drowned out America's inner debate over how much Russia had changed for the better, and America gave himself up to the noise and to the easy sleep it promised.

* * *

A/N:

-I really need to write author notes as I go along, otherwise I can never come up with anything once it's time to post. This is definitely one of those times.

-Feel free to point out and typos or grammatical errors.

-I should mention that there are only two chapters left. The end is nigh!


	21. Chapter 21

The world didn't fade into focus that morning so much as it rammed America in the face. One moment he was minding his own business, content to lounge in the warm indent he had made in the bed, and the next the alarm clock was shrieking like a banshee. His hand automatically shot out from under the sheets and slapped in the general direction of the noise. The alarm stopped its shrill call at roughly the same time it went crashing to the floor. America considered that a success.

America's hands retreated to the toasty confines of the sheet before snaking out like tendrils, looking for something to wrap around. Mainly Russia. But there was nothing to be found except for another body-shaped indent, not nearly as warm as America's. America burbled his displeasure sleepily and sat up, his body nearly folding in on itself as every nerve screamed for more sleep.

"I would never have taken you for a late riser," came Russia's voice, cutting through the drowsy haze of America's mind.

America forced his eyes open, rubbed at them, and burbled again when he found that to be no solution to his blurred vision. "Glasses," he croaked, holding out his hand expectantly. Their familiar weight was pressed into his palm. The features of the room sharpened when he put them on, and he saw Russian standing at his bedside.

"Good morning," Russia said, leaning in for a quick kiss. His breath had the fresh smell of mint lingering on it.

"I bet you've been up since the crack of dawn," America said around a yawn.

"Even earlier."

"You're a machine."

Russia laughed sweetly and let his breath tickle against America's cheek. America smiled and gave a full-bodied stretch. The chilly air of the room was bringing him back around, fending off the groggy edges of his mind.

And then he remembered what day it was and what was to come. He nearly sprung out of bed at the thought.

"What time is it?" he hissed. "Are we gonna be late? Man, I bet we will be. And it'll be my fault, I swear." He swung his legs over the bed, sliding to his feet. His hands went to rub at his eyes a second time.

"It is eight, we are not going to be late, and because we will not be late it cannot be your fault."

"When should we head out?"

"Half-past nine."

"Oh. Good." America's muscles relaxed, his nerves unwinding. "I will, uh, take a shower. Or something." America never had been good from going from dramatic to calm in all of five seconds. There was always an awkward gap that squeezed its way between the two.

"A wise choice," Russia said. Judging from the dampness of his own hair, America figured he'd had a very similar idea not too long ago.

America slunk off in a hurry to the bathroom, taking half the bed sheets with him to battle against the morning chill of the room. He dropped them outside the bathroom and crept in. The room already carried a humid heat, the mirror and solitary window clouded with steam. "Good Morning" had been written on the mirror. America drew a heart under it before taking his hand and buffing away the majority of the fog.

America turned the faucets of the shower on, taking his time to dress down as he waited for the water to heat. He stepped into the tub when the mirror had started to fog again, a smile curling along his lips as he was greeted by a pleasant spray of water, his body giving a happy shiver in response.

As he stood under the shower head, enjoying the rivulets that ran across his skin, America thought about the future. That was the kind of thing he did in the shower. The best ideas and plans came together while he scrubbed his hair or was falling asleep. It was the way things worked in his world.

Somewhere between shampooing and conditioning (all while taking great care not to touch the sore spot on his scalp), America got to thinking about the future. Also, zombies. To America, the two were intertwined. He imaged a zombie apocalypse, and those he could spend it with.

Russia would be good at fighting zombies. He had that fire in him, not to mention he was built like a tank. A really handsome tank that America liked to kiss and touch. He'd already proven again and again to have a talent for violence of a near indiscriminate sort. It wasn't the best kind, but Russia would certainly see the zombie apocalypse through.

But say America went back to the life he lived before, well, he'd be lucky if anyone would so much as look at him. Canada might help him out when the zombies attacked, but beyond the almost frightening amount of skill he had with an axe, he kind of seemed like a softie.

England would try to use magic. His useless, no good magic that wasn't actually magic. No amount of wand-waving and funny-colored 'potions' proved anything beyond the fact that England had a fanciful imagination. The single instance of magic America had ever witnessed from him was how he could make any kind of alcohol vanish, but America knew where it went.

Yet there was that one time, when America was still knee-high to a butter bean and England had pretended to steal his nose. Except there wasn't much pretending because one second America was quite in control of his nose and then the next it was located in England's hand.

To relieve the trauma of the event, America chalked it up to a fever dream.

A knocking at the door brought America round from his thoughts of magic and noses and the upcoming, undead-inspired Armageddon.

"What is it?" he sing-songed.

The door cracked open a fraction of an inch.

"I do not mean to be rude, but you seem to be taking quite some time to bathe," came Russia's voice, inquisitive and light.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry 'bout that. Just thinking about zombies."

There was a deafening silence, broken only by the words, "I see."

The door closed, America blushed, and conditioner got in his eyes. America quickly finished scrubbing himself down. He was all too aware of how little thinking he'd gotten done while washing up. The single concrete thing he'd settled upon was that Russia would be a good zombie-fighter. Technically, that made him the safest to stick with, too.

America twisted the shower knobs and stepped out of the shower, dripping water onto the bathroom mat. He pulled a fluffy towel from the rack and set to drying himself off. He tried not to dwell on Russia's reaction to what he'd been thinking about. It hadn't necessarily been a negative one, but it hadn't been positive either. Depressingly neutral, America decided.

With a towel proudly wrapped around his waist, America strutted back into the main room. The armoire that had previously hidden a TV had its doors open, and Russia looked away from the screen to glance at America. There was a remote dangling in one hand, and he used it to gesture at the TV.

America gave the glowing screen his full attention. The scene was reminiscent of a nuclear wasteland, downed power lines on every street, each building a rusty red. There was some moving─ no, _shambling─_ down the middle of a cracked road. It moaned, and America's heart soared.

"Is this a zombie movie?" he asked excitedly.

Russia hummed warmly in answer, and America had to suppress the squeal that threatened to leave him. "Best. Morning. Ever." America grinned and clapped and danced on the balls of his feet. He was nice and clean, a zombie flick was on, and the room smelled like coffee.

He stopped dancing and gave the air a tentative sniff. "You smell that?"

"I thought you might like breakfast once you were out of the shower."

America's head swiveled with the speed and precision of an owl's, his body turning belatedly to follow. The beds had been separated, returned to their original positions. The night stands and lamps were the same. Everything was as it had been, save for a missing alarm clock and the appearance of two cups of coffee along with a few pastries.

"For me?" America said. "You shouldn't have." He padded over and grabbed a cup of coffee, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath in. "You're the best, big guy."

"The best what?" Russia prompted, making his way to America's side. He idly picked up a pastry and nibbled on it. His stomach growled appreciatively.

"The best everything, of course."

Strictly speaking, America almost never ate before meetings. His stomach was usually too twisted and knotted to make much sense of food. It was only during lunch break, when his senses had calmed and whatever jabs that were going to be made had been said, did he feel well enough to eat.

But for Russia, America could manage a bite or two. He had no qualms with gulping down the coffee though, and made quick work of his cup. When he caught Russia watching him out of the corner of his eye, America shyly smiled against the mouth of his coffee.

"Sorry," he said, "couldn't help myself."

Russia smiled kindly. "Both cups are for you."

"You are officially _beyond_ the best. F'real."

America sighed happily as he tossed the first cup in the miniature bin in the corner. He took a bite out of a croissant, chewing thoughtfully.

"Does this make you happy?" Russia said after a quiet moment. He gestured to the coffee, the food, and then the TV.

"Huh?" America followed Russia's hands as they moved. "No duh this stuff makes me happy. I mean, it wouldn't be half as fun if I didn't have someone to share it with─" He winked at Russia. "But yeah, I like it lots."

A silent relief shone in Russia's eyes, and America liked the look of it, so he went on.

"We should do this all the time, y'know? Watch some scary movies, get all cuddly under the blankets, and munch on some popcorn."

Russia nodded. America grinned. He had to keep Russia thinking that he wasn't going to bail on him, that being able to see England and Canada and everyone else wouldn't change a thing between them. If Russia thought otherwise, he might have a few tricks up his sleeve to keep America in the hotel room. And America wasn't going to let that happen. He laid it on thick.

"Shoot, we could sit and watch paint dry and I'd still be happy. I'd be happy because I was with you." America gave Russia's chest a friendly prod.

"Ah, America, you are truly too kind to me." Russia scuffed a bare foot against the floor, and America watched it with all the intensity of a hawk. "But we must really get ready to go soon."

Hook, line, sinker.

"I'll be good to go in a jiffy," America chirped. "I'll dry my hair, and─ and put some clothes on." America put his hands on his towel, checked to make sure it was still firmly wrapped about him.

Russia looked down at himself, his state of dress only marginally better than America's. "That would be wise."

America set his drink down and scurried off to the bathroom, but when he went to shut the door with a flick of his wrist, he found it resisted him. He looked over his shoulder to find that Russia had wedged himself between the door and the frame.

"I need to dry my hair," was Russia's excuse.

"Well so do I," America countered, backing up against the counter as Russia squeezed past him. It was a tight fit, and America found himself nearly sitting in the sink to make it work. He was pretty sure there was more than enough room for the Russia to get by him, but Russia seemed intent on acting as though they were stuck in a shoe box.

Stupid Russia, with his broad shoulders and wide chest taking up most of America's view. He was strong and sturdy, with a frame that invoked feelings of both safety and intimidation. It kind of made America's blood leap and shiver all at once. Stupid Russia indeed. Being all hunky and what have you. People like Russia weren't supposed to be dreamboats, but the world was a confusing place.

A hot blast of air and the roar of the hair dryer hit America in the face, and he squawked in response.

"Are you thinking about zombies again?" Russia asked.

"I─ Yes. That is exactly what I am thinking about," America said quickly

"I did not know one could blush while thinking about zombies," Russia teased.

America folded his arms across his chest, which was quite a feat with how Russia had pressed up against him. "I wasn't blushing. I was getting worked up." America ducked his head against the hot air and let Russia fluff his hair.

What the heck was this, the Shoe Box Salon? But for all his flustered feelings, America had to admit it was nice. He'd always liked being pampered, and Russia had a knack for that sort of thing. He always made it seem like America was the only one in the world, the single person he cared anything for.

America stayed unusually still as he let Russia dry his hair, his thoughts muddled and lazy as he enjoyed the attention. By the end of the sessions his hair was dry and well-managed, tamed by Russia's hand and the blow dryer. Heck, Russia hadn't even bothered to blow-dry his own hair in the end and it looked stupendous. All sleek and shiny and totally touchable.

America touched it. Russia made a loving noise in the back of his throat, one that made America's heart ache with a delightful pain. He wrapped his arms around Russia's neck, his nose nuzzling against the crook.

"This is gonna be awesome," America said. "I just know it."

If America had known how completely un-awesome the coming day would prove, he would have dived right back under the covers.

* * *

The short walk to the conference building was uneventful, the weather was agreeable, and America had to admit he looked stellar. Maybe not as stellar as Russia, what with his pinstripe suit with its fancy double-breasts and smart leather shoes, but America was sure Russia used some sort of Russian gypsy magic (which was possibly real, unlike England's magic) to look so good. It was the sole explanation he could come up with.

But Russia's good looks did nothing to calm America's nerves as they loitered in the lobby. The jolt of cold excitement that had shot down America's spine the moment he stepped through the revolving glass door had decided to crawl into his chest, lodging itself next to his heart.

Seeing everyone again wasn't going to be fun. He knew their eyes would be on him, vigilant and cold, trying to figure him out before he so much as opened his mouth to speak. They'd circle him like vultures, pecking and snapping to get whatever information they could, stripping him to the bone in minutes, harping on him for _more_.

It made his stomach a bit queasy thinking about it, made his lips tingle with a certain numbness he couldn't shake. The instant he heard the door swinging again, it rattled against the back of his throat, and his limbs gave an involuntary jerk. His eyes snapped to the door in time to see China emerging from them.

America's blood froze, and he stared openly.

China, with his jet black hair pulled back into a ponytail as slick as his suit, noticed him immediately. Their eyes locked as China walked by, not the slightest stumble in his step. America's automatic smile kicked in, thin and forced but trying.

China didn't smile back. Not that it bothered America. China never smiled at anything unless it was cute, tiny, or regarded cooking. Mainly cooking Chinese food, at that. But the way he looked at America did bother him. It slid up and down his body, raking across him. It was flat and impersonal, and it made America shudder all over.

Russia's arm slipped around America's waist as China looked away, striding towards the endless corridor flanked with doors. America was all too happy to huddle up against Russia, corralling them both into a cramped space that existed between an aquarium and a fake plant.

"Okay," America said. "One down." A bazillion more to go. He leaned against Russia for support. "Are we─ are we supposed to hide this?" He gestured to the arm Russia had around him.

"China is not stupid, but neither does he gossip."

"You don't think he'll tell anyone he saw us together?"

"As I said, he does not gossip."

"Fine, but how are we supposed to do this? I don't have a clue. Are we supposed to go in together? Or should I wait a few minutes? What if they don't let me in?" The dread building in America's throat made it hard to speak, but he rattled out his questions nonetheless.

"Shh," Russia soothed, running a hand along America's back in calm, even strokes. "Be yourself. That is all you need to do."

America balked. He wasn't even sure who he was anymore, hadn't been sure ever since he decided to stay with Russia. He'd gone from something free-spirited and wily to something that preferred to curl up under the covers with Russia, or hold Russia's hand, or simply be near Russia.

It was all about Russia these days.

But sitting in that meeting room, his knees tucked under the desk as his toes wriggled and his hands wrung, would not be about Russia. It would be about America. America and everyone else in the room, which was bound to be too many.

He'd be the center of attention, and not at all in the way he'd always liked. That wasn't going to work for him. At all. Why rock the boat now when he was more than content to stay at Russia's side? Never mind his promise to England to show up. England had broken lots of promises, so it'd be like karma.

All he had to do was get Russia on his side.

"Russia," America said, "what say we blow this popsicle stand?"

Russia's reaction was minimal at best, nothing but a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Do you not feel this will be as 'awesome' as you hoped?"

"Basically, yeah. I mean, c'mon. I haven't seen anyone in forever and things are all hunky-dory. It's not like people don't tend to skip out on occasion."

"'Skipping out' several months in a row can cause concern."

Russia wasn't buying it. America decided to press harder. He quickly calculated the different things Russia liked, or wanted. There wasn't much to go on**;** he was a man of simple needs and pleasures. Needs and pleasures. That was where he could pin Russia down.

America took a deep breath, help it as he counted to ten, and exhaled slowly. He steeled his nerves and clenched his fists. Desperate times called for desperate measures. "Hey, Russia?" he said.

"Yes, America?"

"We could go back to the hotel room." America pressed his body flush against Russia's. He tried to concentrate on Russia, his strong build and welcoming form, and pretty much anything that was not related to what he was about to do. "Think about it. Just the two of us, warm and snuggly and alone─" He let his hand drift along Russia's chest, picking impishly at a button. "Maybe even have a bit of _fun_."

Russia went stiff, and not in the way that America was hoping.

"America," Russia said, "that is not how 'fun' works." His hand went to rest against America's forehead, checking for a temperature. He sighed when he found no hint of fever.

America looked up to see Russia's expression, a mix of weariness and something that bordered on disappointment. America shied away. "I─ I'm sorry," he said. "That was dumb. I didn't really even mean it. I don't─ I mean─"

America's lips kept moving, but the words stopped coming. His eyes locked onto his shoes. When he felt Russia's fingers under his chin, carefully trying to tilt his chin up, he grudgingly allowed it. He avoided looking at Russia's eyes as much as he could. They were round and deep and _sad_. America was sure that last part was his fault.

"America, look at me."

America made a disgruntled noise.

"Please."

America stared at the spot between Russia's eyes.

"Would you like to go back to the hotel?"

"Yeah."

"Then that is all you need to say." Russia pulled America into a hug, planting a kiss atop his head before whispering into his hair, "There is no need to bribe me. But─" He drew back and gave America's hair a single stoke. "─we will need to discuss having 'fun'."

America blanched. Was Russia saying they were going to have a talk about the birds and the bees? It was weird enough when he'd gotten one from England. The worst part of it all being that he'd already been told how it all worked, both from young friends and local drunks, but it wasn't as though he could tell England to wrap up his stammering speech because it was too late.

And America was over two-hundred years old. You wouldn't give a sex talk to some old geezer in a retirement home, so why should America have to suffer through one? But there was that uncertain ground regarding his relationship with Russia. He wouldn't mind getting that all settled and smoothed out. He was quite sure he wanted more, but it was hard to weasel that past the guilt of such an idea, let alone let such a request slip past his lips.

"Okay," America said, leaning heavily into Russia. "That sounds good to me."

Russia's grip went from tender to tight at the sound of a throat being cleared behind them. America jumped, hunched his shoulders with a surprised tension, and let out a startled noise. He wriggled slightly in Russia's arms, trying to see who had interrupted them.

He caught the flash of morning light off glasses, the pretty, coy smile he'd never been able to master. The one that Canada was terribly, terribly talented at. The one he pulled whenever he was interrupting something he shouldn't, and needed a front to pull it off.

"Hey, bro," America said.

"Ah, Canada, such a pleasure to see you," Russia said. The harmonics of his voice indicated the complete opposite.

"Good to see you two. If it wouldn't be too much, would you mind if I had a word with America?" Canada asked, with that false meekness he had perfected over the years. America had the puppy-dog eyes. Canada had the puppy-dog voice.

The first thing America realised was that Canada didn't want 'a word' with him. He wanted a full-blown session of words. Enough words to fill a hundred encyclopedias. In other words, a lot of words. The moment he was within arm's reach of Canada, there'd be the usual assurance that Russia shouldn't wait up, to move along for a bit.

Returning to the hotel room wasn't going to happen. Not with Canada in the picture now. Canada's 'word' with America would turn into a short stroll, which in turn would become a drink, which would metamorphose into a meal. He was tricky like that. Always one for subtleties, Canada was the one who lured people into situations, whereas America would simply hound on them (with a smile, of course) until they gave in. America suspected Canada might be the evil twin. Just not super-evil.

Evil or not, Canada was definitely not going to be cool with Russia hanging around while he talked to America. But having walked in on Russia and America holding onto one another, he was sure to have his suspicions. If America was going to have to part with Russia, he was going to do it with pizazz, make a show of it that neither of them would expect.

"That's fine," America said sweetly, turning back to Russia. "I'm gonna run off with Canada for a bit. But remember," he added, when he saw the concerned flash in Russia's eyes. "That I love you lots."

It was Russia's turn to give a jump. America grinned.

"And that's the truth of it. I love you more than infinity." He attacked Russia with kisses, peppering them on his cheeks, forehead, and lips.

It felt good to get the words out. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting on them, but it'd taken Poland's insistence to make him confront the fact. He was ready to embrace it now, let the whole world know.

Well, except for England. He could stay in the dark.

Russia's fingers traced along America's jaw, the pads soft and caring as they moved. They rose to touch America's lips, lovingly tracing their outline. Russia's smile, while small and shy, was so warm it could melt icebergs. America scolded himself inwardly at the comparison. He was getting so sappy these days. Love was doing him in.

"I love you too," Russia said. He leaned in, letting their foreheads touch. "I love you too," he said again, softer this time.

America gave Russia one last kiss. "I'll see you at lunch, okay?"

Russia's appearance was not one of agreement, but reluctant acceptance. "Remember, America," he said softly. "You will always be mine. No one can ever change that."

America's cheeks colored, and he felt the warm rush of blood through his veins. He smiled crookedly, a goofy twist of his lips and flash of white teeth. He was being charmed like a snake and didn't mind one bit.

"I'll keep that in mind, big guy," America said as he pulled away, taking a moment to straighten Russia's lapels, a last grab for contact before Canada's hands were gently guiding him away.

They spoke only when they were out of the building, the streets full of bustling people, a cacophony of noises and an avalanche of smell. The sky was clear and bright, the sun beating down on them with stark rays. America sighed and looked at Canada out of the corner of his eye, and found Canada was doing the same.

"Knowing you like I do," Canada started.

"And you do," America added.

"You haven't eaten breakfast yet."

Canada knew him too well, America thought wryly. "Actually, I shook things up this morning. Had a donut and everything─"

He couldn't get any further than that, not with how Canada's arms were suddenly around him, his entire weight resting on America and bogging him down. It'd been so long since anyone but Russia had hugged him it took America a moment to figure out exactly what was going on.

America imagined Canada's hugs were exactly like the kind he used to give himself at night back when he had no one to come home to. America had grown foreign to the sensation, and found his arms were awkward and gangly when he tried to return it.

"I miss you," Canada said, his voice a mumble.

"C'mon, bro, I miss you too. But chill out, it's not like this is the last time you'll see me."

"It's not?"

America's heart broke.

"Of course it's not, man. We're gonna have loads of time together. All day, every day."

Canada's pulled away and quirked an eyebrow. "You know I love you, but that's a bit much."

"Okay, okay. We won't have to be together _that_ much."

Canada laughed lightly, his loose curls bobbing as he did so. "Let's get breakfast."

The restaurant they decided on was deceitfully large, considering the unassuming front it had. Tables filled the main room, lining the walls, and were tucked in all corners. Canada requested "something private", which led to them being seated in a shadowy, almost skeevy looking booth, but it was out of the way.

America made a big to-do about putting his napkin in his lap. He straightened and smoothed, adjusted and moved, did all in his power to prolong any king of necessary exchanging of words. Canada had his serious face on now. The one with the set, stony gaze and the thin lips. It was a face that got answers, and America wasn't handing those puppies out willy-nilly.

When the waiter came by, America mumbled that he wanted water. Canada ordered orange juice. America promptly busied himself afterward by sticking his nose in the menu, murmuring the items as he saw them, taking in not a single word. He peeked over the top of the list of appetizers when he heard the clink of glasses being set down.

"We'll both have pancakes," Canada said to their waiter.

America's shield was taken from him as the waiter obediently bustled off.

"Maybe I don't want pancakes," America said, tracing his finger along the rim of his glass.

"You want pancakes."

It was true. America wanted pancakes. Whenever him and Canada went out to eat on their own, whether they be emerging from a theater to find that day had turned to night, or simply looking for someplace still open after staying at the bar too long, pancakes would be eaten. It was a ritual that had never been named or discussed, a ritual that simply was.

"Yeah. I want pancakes," America admitted. He fiddled with his silverware, prodding his knife with his fork before going after his spoon.

"How long have you been with him?"

America clanged his fork against his glass. "Long enough."

Canada looked nonplussed. "Since when have you even liked him? A year ago you couldn't so much as stand the way he cleared his throat."

"No, Canada. He seriously made the most annoying noise when he did that. And he did it in purpose, too. Like, imagine a rhinoceros laughing and throwing up at the same time. That is what he used to sound like."

"America, he sounds like anyone else when he clears his throat."

"But he used to do it all stupid-like to annoy me, I swear."

"Okay, never mind. Never mind, America. This isn't about whatever the Hell kind of noises Russia supposedly makes to annoy you."

"Fine," America huffed. "He doesn't make them anymore, anyway."

Canada stared into his orange juice as though he were trying to read the pulp as portents. America watched lazily, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. This wasn't going as well as he had hoped it would. He'd been expecting an easy back and forth, warm, shallow conversation, but Canada was cutting to the quick.

"Does he ever hit you?" Canada blurted.

America squawked, scoffed, and stood up all at once, his palms flat on the table as he helped himself up. "You have got to be kidding me. I didn't sign up for this."

Canada was on his feet a second later, his hands making placating motions, his face etched with an uneasy concern. "Wait a second, America. I didn't say he _was_, I'm just making sure. And considering how many knock-down drag-out fights you two have had, I have a right to be suspicious."

America stayed standing, but made no move to leave. It was true that Russia and America had exchanged blows many a time. They'd found themselves up against walls, rolling on the floor, or having plain old brawls in the middle of the street. Their bitter back and forth did have a way of leading to physical exchanges, and not the nice kind.

"He hasn't laid a finger on me since we got together," America huffed. They'd both had their more violent moments, but Canada didn't need to know that. He wouldn't understand.

"Alright then, I just wanted to make sure." Canada sat down slowly, as though expecting America to bolt if he moved too suddenly.

"Heck, I wouldn't ask that kind of thing if Russia was your boyfriend," America said, taking his seat with a fair deal of hesitation.

"That's because you'd assume he was beating me."

America laughed hollowly. "Sounds about right."

Silence bloomed between them, thick yet somehow empty, halting all conversation. America rubbed at the back of his neck. He couldn't recall the last time things with Canada were so awkward. He sensed Canada's questions hanging in the air, encroaching, battling the silence. America countered their approach by asking a few himself.

"So, uh, how are you doin' these days? Like, you look good and all." America stared at his nails as he spoke. Canada really was looking good. Before he'd seemed like someone who wasn't always there, never completely participating in conversation or debate. From the way he moved and spoke, he seemed to have grown into himself.

"Things are okay," Canada said. "It's different, being in the spotlight."

America's ears perked. "Stepped up to the plate, eh?"

Canada's eyes widened. "Don't you know?"

America shook his head. "Can't say I've been keeping up with current events. It's kind of nice, actually. No more worrying about who pissed off who, no late nights spent staring at the ceiling trying to figure out how to fix things I can't change to begin with." America played with a sugar packet. "This must be what being a person is like."

Canada watched with disinterest as their waiter set down two plates stacked with pancakes. His lips were drawn into a tight line, the light in his eyes glimmering, thinking. He dutifully thanked their waiter for the food before he started to drench his plate with syrup.

"Do you even want to know what's going on?"

America's knife and forked clinked loudly as he cut his pancakes into tiny pieces. "Not really. Russia takes care of all that junk for me. And─ and I'm sure if anything was really bad he'd tell me. Or you'd tell me." He speared his pancake. "You would, right?"

Canada raised his fork to his mouth. Then he put it down. He tried again, but his mouth had no interest in eating.

"What the Hell is going on?" he said. "Did you hear what he said to you when we were leaving? He said you were his and no one could change that. I'm not sure you understand this but you fall into the category of 'no one.' Russia is not someone you can go on a few dates with and then decide it's not going to work out."

"Russia isn't a fling, Canada. We're in love, in case I need to tell you again. And it's not like it is in all the movies and books, where he brings me flowers and chocolates and takes me out to eat at nice places. It's better than that. He keeps my feet warm in bed and cares about my opinion and doesn't yell at me when I touch his stuff."

"And what do you give him in return? Free reign of your life?"

America's cheeks burned hotly with embarrassment. "Thanks for being so supportive. It's nice you can be happy for me."

Canada pinched the bridge of his nose. "England doesn't know, does he?"

"Nope." America pointed his fork at Canada. "And you're not going to tell him."

"I never agreed to that."

America leveled a hard stare at Canada. "Listen to me, okay?"

"I'm listening."

"Do you have any idea how happy Russia makes me?"

"Not very?"

"Canada," America hissed, "I'm not gonna talk to you if you're going to be like this."

"Alright, alright. I'm sure he makes you think you're happy."

America ignored Canada's intricately dismissive wording. "Do you think I would be happy if England found out?"

"No."

"So do you want to make me sad?"

"What─ no. America, stop that. Of course I don't want you to be sad."

"But I will be if you tell on me. I'll be sad and it'll be your fault. I swear it'll be your fault. I will personally blame you for my lack of happiness and never talk to you again. Ever. Not even once in a million years."

Canada buried his face in his hands with an exasperated sigh. "You're impossible."

"Also," America added casually, "snitches get stitches."

Canada blinked, tilting his head to one side. He held the pose for a moment before busting into a fit of snorting giggles. "America, you're about as threatening as a basket of bunnies. And we're not in prison."

America shrank back in his seat. "Are you gonna tell him or not? Because I am totally heading for Splitsville if you are."

"England won't hear a word about it from me," Canada said. "He's always been one to shoot the messenger." His features turned somber. "When you see him, try not to rile him up. He's not taking the changes all that well."

"The surprise of the century," America joked, trying not to dwell on what Canada said. 'When you see him,' not 'if you see him.' He was expecting America to keep his promise.

"America, I'm being serious. You know he gets in his moods, so don't make it worse."

"I'll be on my best behavior," America said confidently. He was getting good at lying. He'd be on his best behavior, but he wouldn't be setting a foot near England.

Canada turned his attention back to his half-eaten breakfast, soaking bits of pancake thoroughly, but never actually doing anything more with them. America followed his example, pushing food around his plate that he had no intention of eating.

America flinched when he felt Canada's fingertips brush the side of his face, his vision blurring as Canada carefully removed his glasses. The world turned to a disconcerting blur, but America said nothing. He knew what was coming, the next step in another unvoiced ritual.

Right on cue, the world shifted back into focus as Canada replaced the glasses. America blinked a few times, watching as Canada sat back in his seat. He'd switched their glasses. America's frames, black and sleek and thin, looked unfamiliar on Canada's face.

America imagined he must look a little out of place now as well. Canada's frames had always been on the chunkier side, following the idea of performance more than the path of fashion. They were straightforward and did what was expected of them, not unlike Canada.

They'd switched glasses before. During tumultuous times that were weighted with strife and fighting, it was a secret exchange, like wearing one another's clothes. It had held a certain comfort in the past. But America saw it for what it really was, a way for Canada to ensure he'd see America again. He was trying to snare America into visiting with him soon, knowing full well that they'd eventually have to give back their glasses.

America wasn't going to fall for it. He'd have to whip together a decent excuse for refusing the trade and get his glasses back. The wheels of his mind set to spinning, carefully crafting reasons why he couldn't be parted with his glasses, something not altogether ridiculous.

"So he really makes you happy, eh?" Canada asked, and now it was his turn to be engrossed by the tablecloth.

"Seriously. He's a great guy, I bet you two would get along well if you tried."

"I'll pass, but thanks for the offer." Canada frowned. "If he ever gives you any flack, give me a call, okay?"

"Okay," America said dully. Canada didn't really seem to _get_ how America felt about Russia. He was treating it like some feeble, meaningless relationship, a summer romance never meant to last. It made America wish that he was with Russia right now, with his hands resting on America's waist, his lips at America's ear as he whispered sweet words.

America kicked at the carpet beneath his seat. It was weird, being away from Russia. He'd been such a constant in America's life for the past several months that the lack of his presence was wholly unnerving. America found himself looking over his shoulder from time to time in the hopes of seeing him, or opening his mouth to pose a question or ask an opinion. But he zipped his lips when he remembered Russia was gone.

"Hey, bro?" America asked after a long pause.

"Hmm?"

"If my folks start acting up or anything, you have, like, my blessing or whatever to step in."

Canada laughed, and America cringed at the sound. It was full of discomfort, a grating scratch against his ears. "Why couldn't you have given me your 'blessing' a few years back? Would've been loads more useful then."

America froze as he took in Canada's words. A few years back? _Years_? The room suddenly seemed far smaller than it had before, the ceiling too low and the walls too close. The fork in his hand became unbearably heavy, and he dropped it on his plate with a clatter that rang loud as a church bell.

He tried to stand, but his kneecaps had decided to migrate south to visit with his ankles. The only thing he could move was his mouth.

"What do you mean 'a few years'? Why are you saying that?" America's voice crumpled as he spoke, his eyes growing wide, pleading with Canada for an answer. While the days and weeks and months had started to blend, roll by at an unidentifiable pace, America was sure he would've noticed had years gone by.

Canada looked alarmed, his posture straightening as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. "I was kidding, America. Don't get so worked up over it. I─ I'll admit there are times when I've wanted to whack you upside the head, but you're my brother. You know I'm going to let you get away with what you want, even if I don't exactly approve.

"But this hiding has got to stop," Canada continued firmly. "Disappearing for half a year and not sending so much as a single postcard is plain rude. "

America's heart seized once before giving a weak flop. Relief washed over him, and his kneecaps gradually returned from their impromptu vacation. Half a year wasn't all that bad, especially compared to the prospect of going years without noticing. He let out a shaky breath and forced a smile.

"I'll be sure to mail you the second I get home."

"And call me too," Canada added, his arms folding over his chest as he sat back. "If you can call England, there's no reason not to ring me."

"I did try calling you," America said weakly. "But it went to your machine."

"Then leave a message."

"Yes, mom."

America was sure he saw Canada roll his eyes, but it was hard to tell with how the overhead lights glinted off his glasses. The waiter returned and cleared their plates and left the bill lying facedown on the table. America's leg started to jog up and down, anxious to stand, to escape.

"I'll take care of this," Canada said, snatching up the bill. "And I've got to page a colleague. You stay put, okay?"

America's head bobbed. "Sure thing, bro."

America didn't stay put long. Once Canada was out of sight, America sensed the eyes of the other patrons on his, beady and watchful, he could hear their thoughts, their musings on why he was alone. Their collective gaze bore into his bones and struck at his core.

Before he knew it he was on his feet, making a bee-line for the door. He ignored the staff's wishes that he come back soon. They didn't _really_ mean it. Their salary made them say it.

America left the restaurant feeling more than a little lost. The street outside was gray, all sidewalks and streets with no color. People hurried by him with their heads down and their coats buttoned up to their noses. The single thing that drew America's attention was a red phone booth.

Figuring there was no better place to find Canada, America jogged over with the bouncing, loose limbs of a child. He recognized Canada immediately and bounded up to the glass, pressing his palms against it. Canada was busy placing the phone back on the hook, and had no reaction aside from a calm, drawn smile when he saw America apparently trying to phase through the phone booth.

"Didn't I tell you to stay put?" he said when he emerged from the booth. He didn't sound too upset.

"I missed you," America said sweetly. Everyone liked being missed.

"So you were bored?"

"I guess you could say that." America shoved his hands in his pockets and gave an innocent whistle. If only it were as simple as being bored.

Canada gave a short, barking laugh. "C'mon, let's head back."

He turned and started down the street, America following hot on his heels.

* * *

America had never heard of a conference being held on the third floor of a building. It seemed strange that in all the years that he'd been attending that it'd never happened, but he never questioned the logic, had hardly given it a fleeting thought until Canada directed him toward the elevator.

"Aren't you coming with?" America asked after Canada had told him the room number.

"Nah, I got some stuff to take care of down here. But hey, if you don't want to go in you can hang around in the break room up there."

America's head cocked to the side as he thought it over. He supposed that relaxing quietly would be rather nice, though it would mean he was alone, but it would be better than sitting for hours at a table, doing his best to ignore the stares of those around him. It was hard enough to handle the curious looks of strangers in a restaurant, let alone the glares of those who knew him. Plus, he'd agreed to meet Russia at lunch, whenever the heck that was. No one would be expecting him to drop in and actually _attend_.

Well, as long as he didn't include England. Canada was sure to tell England that America had shown his face at least, and that would probably keep him satisfied for a bit.

As the elevator doors slid open, America turned to say his goodbyes. Instead of something warm and heartfelt he blurted, "I need my glasses back."

"Why?"

"I can't see with these," America lied through his teeth.

"America, our prescriptions are the same."

"Not anymore," America insisted. "Everything is all dumb and blurry with these."

"Well your glasses work fine for me."

"You callin' me a liar?"

"Yeah."

America nudged the toe of shoe against the carpet. Canada knew that America was in on the game and wasn't going to give in easily. America contemplated simply snatching them off Canada's face, but that could cause quite the commotion, not to mention some hard feelings.

"If you didn't want to trade, you should have said so," Canada said as he took off his glasses and handed them over.

America sputtered, his lips forming a few garbled words of thanks and surprise. He traded glasses with Canada, his fingers fumbling and fast. With his own glasses returning to his face, America's courage mounted. He'd get through the next few hours alright. Sure he didn't have Russia with him, but he'd manage.

"I guess this is goodbye, then," Canada said, adjusting his glasses. His expression unusually broody, giving him the appearance of a sullen child. But then his eyes lit up, or at least America thought they did. The light was gone in a flash, too quick for him to mention it.

Instead, America gave a shrug. "We'll see each other again before you know it."

Canada smiled. "I get the feeling we will."

America managed a smile to match Canada's as he stepped into the waiting elevator. "See y'later, alligator."

"Good luck, silly duck."

"We're so dumb," America said as he punched the button for floor two.

"Tell me about it." Canada gave a solitary wave while the elevator doors slid shut.

America leaned against the back of the elevator once it gave a smooth jolt upward, closing his eyes as he felt himself slowly ascending the building. He'd have to be sure to write to Canada. His brother seemed to be his ally, or at least he would be until he found out what exactly had transpired. Not that America had any intention of telling him, or even spending more time with him.

Canada was always the smart one. He picked up on the more subtle nuances of behavior and speech, had the ability to understand the big picture using only the minor details. One wrong word or move and he'd be on red alert, gleaning bits and pieces of what went unsaid and putting them together to solve the puzzle of what was truly happening. It'd be only a matter of time before he noticed the person America had become.

Or rather, the person America was becoming. Somewhere along the way, between inventing new board games and spending every night in Russia's bed, Russia had taken America and smashed him. Had turned America into a thousand little pieces.

And now Russia was putting him back together one painstaking piece at a time, creating something new from the old. Recycling him, almost. But the process wasn't complete. There were still parts of America that wanted to return to the past, parts of him that longed for blue summer skies, warm breezes, and to return to his home back in the States.

And yet there were the parts that called Russia home, and yearned for snow and cold evenings spent by the fireside. It was impossible to reconcile who he had been and what Russia was making him. Something would have to give, and give soon.

There was a low ding as the elevator reached the second story, and America opened to eyes, though he kept them trained on the floor. The doors slid open painfully slow, and he watched as another pair of shoes entered, well-polished and shiny as anything.

They stood in his way, and America's brow furrowed as he heard buttons being pushed and the doors closing again. The shoes went nowhere, content to stand before him, closer than was comfortable for America. He raised his head a fraction, careful to keep his face blank and unreadable. Poker faces were made for elevators, after all.

Whoever had joined him was a snazzy dresser, albeit one that liked to stand too close. His slacks were pressed and unlined, held up by a fine belt. There was a pager clipped to the belt, and America wondered if this was Canada's supposed 'colleague.'

Unable to help himself, America looked up to sate his own curiosity. His eyes moved from the pager to the man's crispy shirt and fine golden cufflinks. The man's build was stout, compact almost, and rather wiry. Then he reached the face. The face with those cat-green eyes and heavy, bristly brows.

America's lips went numb, cold pinpricks dancing along his scalp as he registered who he was looking at. His hand gripped the wall's railing and all his blood drained to his feet.

"Hello, lad," England said, his smile strangely feral, and Canada's warning that England wasn't quite well lately echoed in his head.

"Hello," America said back.

Today was going to be a long day.

* * *

A/N:

-Really Russia, you don't take America for a late riser? I bet that boy could sleep in til three and still hit the snooze button.  
-Has anyone else ever noticed that when you really dislike someone, you dislike the stupidest little things? Like how they breath, clear their throat, use their utensils. So bogus.  
-Oh Canada, you enabler.  
-'Sup England.  
-There will be an epilogue down the road for this story. One that is stupidly long (isn't everything I write stupidly long?) and yeah. I would say more but I can't until the end of the next chapter since that would spoil things.  
-I'm going to be moving this weekend so I might be without internet for a bit. What does this _mean_? Well, it means the next chapter might take longer to churn out than before. Or it could mean I write it faster with no pretty internet to distract me.

EDIT:

-Amazing fanart for the last scene in this chapter has been drawn by Beyond-The-Winter and can be found here!: yourwaywarddestiny . deviantart . com/#/d399l0l


	22. Chapter 22

The smell of England overwhelmed America more than the sight of him. There was the stuffy, dry air of the elevator one moment, and then next it was soaked in the scent of alcohol and smoke. It rolled off England in thick, smothering waves, made America's eyes water and his nose prickle with the hint of a sneeze.

Yet England's complexion lacked the booze-brightened quality it held when he'd had too much to drink, his skin shining instead with a thin layer of perspiration. He was sweating out the toxins from the night before, America figured, paying for his late night of excess.

His eyes were glazed and bloodshot as he looked America over, his expression carrying a poorly concealed air of judgement. America shrank back into the corner of the elevator as much as possible, noting with a mounting panic that they had started to descend.

"I─ I have to go to the meeting," America stammered out, doing his best to raise his chin in defiance.

England made a curt hushing noise, his brow furrowing with distaste. He continued to stand in front of the door, half-wedging himself between it and the lines of buttons, preventing America from trying anything funny.

"England," America tried again, his voice bordering on a plea, "I seriously need to get to the meeting." His hands took to wringing.

"America, I know what's going on."

The mounting panic and dread collided with England's words, melted and swirled into a numb sedative. It dripped down his spine, slid down his fingertips, pooled at his toes. The rushing of blood past his ears turned to a hollow, empty noise, like wind through a tunnel. His hands fell uselessly to his sides, the single thing going through his head a mantra-like repetition of, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my _God._"

The rest of his time in the elevator passed in a realm where time seemed to have no interest in existing. It neither moved nor stood still, simply ceased to be at all. The lights of the elevator were all too bright, the piped in music distorted and faraway, with no hint of tune or melody.

As they slowly dropped, America became sure they couldn't be going to the first floor. They kept going and going, to a depth America believed had to be near those first few circles of Hell. If anyone had access to those, it would definitely be England.

When the elevator doors slid open, America fully expected to be greeted by fire and brimstone. He instead registered that they were in an underground parking lot, a vast expanse of gray and concrete and cars lined in rows.

America flinched when he felt England's hand at his elbow, his grip fierce, almost painful as he guided America out of the elevator and through the cars. The floor was jello beneath America's feet, or maybe the fault lay with his knees. The air around him was thick as water, and just as easy to breathe. Every rise of his chest was a struggle, each step an impossibility.

He put up no resistance when he heard the creak of a car door being opened, the pressure of England trying to force him to sit, along with the strained grunts as he reached over to buckle America in, his breath reeking of old alcohol and cigarettes.

A quiet, dreadful agony kept America pinned to his seat as England closed the door and went to the driver's side. The engine was started with a cough and a sputter, and America's head lolled of its own accord against the headrest.

The same three words ran through America's mind as the concrete ceiling of the parking lot changed to the blue sky of the outside, the dark walls becoming shop fronts and, eventually, rolling hills. It all went by America without notice, his eyes unfocused, glazed, uninterested in his surroundings.

A steady heat crawled beneath his suit, itched under his skin, impossible to satisfy with the scratching of fingers. It wrapped around his neck like a scarf, tightened like a noose, and set his to squirming, pawing at his tie to loosen it, as though the heat would be released then.

With no relief to be found, America's eyes took to darting around the car, looking for the source of his discomfort. They quickly honed in on the dashboard, finding that the heat was turned all the way up. He snuck a glance at England and found him in much the same condition, his forehead beaded with sweat.

"England. England, why do you have the heat up? It's boiling," America rasped.

"I took it you were cold, boy," England said. His wiped the back of his hand against his forehead and sighed. "You're shivering like it, anyway."

America's mind took its sweet time wrapping around England words. It took them one at a time, slowly indexing and identifying their meaning, stringing them together to make sense. England thought he was cold. He said America was shivering. America was sure he was none of these things, but decided to double-check for the sake of being thorough.

He mimicked England and put a hand of his forehead, the pads of his fingers gliding over his slicked skin. Cold, he most certainly was not. He moved onto the second point, the one about the shaking. He tested this by sitting back in his seat and raising his hands to his eyes.

They might have been shaking. They might have been shaking a lot. It had to be the car that was making it happen, what with how it bounced along the road, the chassis rattling as the engine rumbled. America put his hands on his knees. They were shaking too. But America didn't mind much. The shaking was in the present, and his mind was slowly but surely losing the ability to hang on to that.

It started to slip into the past, full of images and sensations. The smell of the crisp night air of the new year, the occasional pop and bang and sizzle of a firework that had missed its chance in the grand finale of its intended show or fallen into the hands of teens. There had been the nip of the cold at the tip of his nose and biting along his ears, and the quiet peacefulness that followed midnight hours.

But then there was the burning shock of seeing Russia followed by the feel of metal as he slid against the hood of a car, the way the blackness started at the edges of his vision and ate its way in until there was nothing left to see but an unassailable void. Mostly, there was the fear.

The fear of not knowing where he was and what was happening, the inability to think straight and keep himself upright, the horrible, faraway realisation that he was depending on someone else to keep him from hitting the ground.

And somewhere along the way, in his apparent months at Russia's, this had become normal.

"You're out of sorts, aren't you?" England was tutting.

"I know," America said in return. The words were not a response, but instead a horrified echo of what England had said previously.

There was a sigh followed by the engine being cut off. There was the zip and snap of a seat belt being undone, and then opening and closing of the car's door. A blissful silence filled the aftermath for precious few seconds before the door on his side was opening and it was his seat belt's turn to come off.

"Let's get you inside, boy," England coaxed, awkwardly attempting to pull America out of the car. "I'll put on the kettle and we can watch the telly. Or, we could talk─ yes, I think we should talk."

America let himself be pulled out of the car and gave an empty nod. He got on his feet and took a steadying breath, England's hand moving to the small of his back to urge him on toward the door. America's steps were automatic, the path a familiar one ingrained after years of visiting England.

The winding stone path hadn't changed, but the yard had. The carefully clipped and trimmed grass had begun to encroach at the edges, a fine patina of moss slithering through the spaces between stones. A growth of dandelions congregated off to the left, and the ivy that had once decorated the red brick walls of England's cottage were looking to overtake it. The flower beds outside the windows were devoid of life beyond weeds.

None of it sunk in until England opened the front door and flicked a light switch, America following on his heels. England's cottage had always been, to America at least, neatly summed up by the word 'cozy.' But this time the term 'hovel' jumped to the forefront of his mind.

The coffee table that had previously been bare, save for a few polite magazines and books for company to browse, was now covered with letters and empty envelopes, and an array of already-used tea cups. The settee was heaped with blankets and a pillow, a makeshift bed.

It smelled like lost sleep and sweaty palms.

"Don't mind the clutter," England said as he escorted America, guiding him through to the kitchen and pointing at a chair. "Sit."

America sat, watching out of his peripheral vision as England bustled around the kitchen, dirtied pots and pans clattering as he stacked them up in an attempt to lessen the mess. The dull dread that thrummed through his veins was growing stronger, pulsing against his temples and rushing past his ears. His mind was speeding back to the present, racing at a breakneck speed that made his head feel like it was two sizes too small to fit his memories.

He took in the world at half-capacity, noticing that one of the overhead lights in the kitchen had burned out, that England was talking to him still as he opened the refrigerator door. But America wasn't ready to expend the energy to respond yet. Talking seemed like an impossible task that was all too heavy on his tongue. Instead he leaned on the dining table before him, elbows taking his weight as he started to slump.

England placed a plate of scones before him along with some clotted cream and jam. The scones were piled with a delicate, almost neurotic touch. A perfect pyramid ready to be eaten. America reached for one automatically, picking it from the top.

He wasn't hungry in the slightest, but through the years he had learned what love was like from England. England didn't _do_ touch. He didn't do hugs or kisses, or even so much as a brief ruffle of the hair or a pat on the back. The look in his eyes went wrong when he did, like he didn't fully understand the sensations that came with the act.

In place of physical love, England doled out food. Shepherd's pie, bangers and mash, marginally burned dishes loaded with fat and butter, all of it fell under England's definition of love. Sweets and pasties alike were made by his hand, some better than others, and America ate them all.

"You wrote that you missed my scones," England said as he took a seat. America could see a letter in his hands, dulled and worn around the edges. "Why did you do that?"

America stared at the scone, tested the weight of it in his hand, felt the texture with his fingers. For all his quick wit and easy charm, he hadn't been able to think up an excuse that he thought England would fall for.

"That was our─ our little 'code.' I read your letter and thought something was wrong, but you sent this from Cornwall." England's voice rose for a moment, like a great wave, then cracked and turned in on itself, nothing but the soft, churning rush of sea foam. "I looked for you. I looked everywhere for you."

America stuffed the scone in his mouth to avoid answering, but held his free hand out and gestured for the letter. England held it close to his chest, eyeing America with a certain cold suspicion. He pet the parchment like a cherished animal, something small and vulnerable that needed protection. He showed it more affection than he had America in the past years.

America reached for a second scone, trying to fill the aching pain in his chest. He couldn't argue with England on this count. Arguing with England was like flailing about in quicksand, the more you moved the worse it got. In the end there was no option aside from giving up, so America did his best to avoid touching**, **avoid getting himself snared to start with.

The two of them sat in silence as America ate. England's eyes focused on the letter while America's regarded the scones. He didn't want to think about the letter, or how it had ended up being posted from Cornwall. Had Russia been wary of it being traced back to him to the point where a middleman had received it first and resealed it in a new envelope before sending it off?

It all seemed too convoluted to America these days. Nothing was simple or straightforward, instead a game of staying one step ahead and twisting truth. He wanted to go back to the days where the most important part of his day was picking his clothes or meals or what show he wanted to watch. Not one where his constant aspiration was to hide where he was and who he was with.

And he'd tried to change that, tried to make a momentary grab for the past when he'd written the letter to England and slipped in their code. That was supposed to trip alarms and send up red flags, and it had worked. Almost, at least. England had gotten the message, but flubbed it all up by focusing too much on the location of the letter**'**s supposed origins.

"Why have you been hiding from me?" England started up again. "Why do you make me worry like this, think you've been taken away, and then let me find out you've been absolutely dandy and dawdling about the English countryside?" His tone was harsh as gravel, accusation dripping from every syllable.

America curled in on himself, thoughts turning inwards again. There was no making England happy. He found problem with everything from America's clothes to the way he pronounced words. Each mistake he made found its way to England's ears, and would find itself etched into his head for decades to come.

America was tired of being England's scapegoat when things went wrong. Pot roast didn't turn out right? It'd be America's fault for opening the oven door too many times to look at it. Traffic was particularly bad? America's fault again, this time by taking ten seconds longer than usual to put his shoes on. But for the most part, America's continued existence tended to be the main problem-causer for England.

"We're going to sit here until you tell me where you've been, you know," England said with a huff. "No matter how long it takes."

America chewed through his third scone, his stomach overly-full and hurting. There no words he could say that would temper England's poor mood. Each sound that came from America's mouth would be nothing but fuel for the fire.

The sound of England's foot tapping against the floor was like Chinese water torture. The noise so small, almost nonexistent, burrowed its way into America's head, drilling amongst the white noise of England's continued tirade. It was the constant of it that finally spurred America into speaking.

"Maybe I found someone who doesn't harp on me twenty-four seven," America snapped, the tendons in his neck tensing. "Maybe I found someone who doesn't get mad if I blink at them the wrong way, or yell when get crumbs in the bed. And they don't call me 'boy', they call me by my _name_."

The tapping stopped. England leaned in, letting his arms rest on the table, his expression unsettlingly cool. "And what's your name?"

The way England's lip curled, revealing the white of his teeth and the startings of a sneer, told America this was a kind of trick question. So he sat and he stared, debating sinking back into silence or pretending the question hadn't been asked to begin with.

But then England might start tapping again, and America couldn't take any more of that. Each tap was another second away from Russia, another second where things could go wrong, another second closer to crumbling. Mostly, it was another second of having to deal with England.

America, on the whole, liked England. When it came down to it, he considered England a friend. But somewhere along the way, rather early on America suspected, their relationship had become stunted. Instead of following the natural course of complete adoration, followed by the usual teenage rebellion, and then moving on to the somewhat mutual respect adults gave one another, they'd stopped. Or really, England had stopped.

America was more than ready for the mutual respect stage, and had been for as long as he could remember. But England had decided to stick to the rebellious stage. He continued to view America as a child, had figured that America still needed his decisions made for him by his elders. Mainly England and no one else.

And despite it all, America found himself seeking England's approval again and again, just like the child he was thought to be. America wondered if he was capable of having a healthy relationship, aside from his brother. With Russia there was the secrecy and the hiding, and with England the constant walking on egg shells and bids for recognition.

Not to mention they had both pointed guns at him in the past.

"America. America, don't make that face," England said, his voice full of exasperation.

"I'm not making faces," America responded automatically. That was another thing England took offense with more often than not, the expressions on America's face.

"Yes you are, you're making the face you always do when you're not getting your way. All I'm asking is that you tell me what this supposed 'friend' of yours calls you, and you're making faces."

America buried his face in his hands. "Is this better?"

"You know it's not."

America peeked from between his fingers. "Well, I said he calls me by my name, so stop making such a big deal of it."

"Fine."

America watched as England took a scone for himself and set to nibbling on it. There was a light in his eyes, cool and calculating. His eyebrows knotted, wrinkles lining his forehead. He was plotting, trying to figure out what words and what tone would get America to open up.

"Why did you bring me here?" America asked. The light in England's eyes wavered, and America pressed on. "I mean, you didn't drag me along so you could rail on me did you?" America pulled a face. He may as well, with England already accusing him of it.

"You're doing it again," England warned. But his voice had softened like butter, lost its cold edge as he looked at America in all his puppy-dog-eyed glory.

America cranked it up, letting his lower lip push out into a pout as his baby blues went wide. England looked away and made a 'tch'ing noise before he looked back. He set his scone down as his hands curled into anxious fists and his lips stretched tight.

"Of course I wouldn't bring you here to 'rail' on you, as you put it."

"Then why?" America whined. He was surprised at how easy all of this was coming back to him. He never had to use pitiful expressions and childish voices to get Russia to lay off him. Probably because Russia never complained to begin with.

"I thought that perhaps─" And here his cheeks started to redden. "─we could spend time together. And that maybe I could help you. Because like I said, I know─"

America recoiled at the words, reflexively cutting England off with, "And what exactly do you 'know'?"

"I know that this is an attention thing, America."

America's voice dropped to a flat monotone, his fingernails gripping at the tabletop. "It's a what?"

"It's that thing that children do." England made vague motions with his hands, as though this would explain everything. "They act out for attention. Do poorly in school, start fights with their peers, that sort of thing. It's just on a grander scale."

"I'm not starting fights with anyone," America ventured, sounding much more sure than he was.

"No, I suppose you're not." England scratched at his chin, his posture softening. "But the mistakes you've been making, they're not right. Textbook examples of your condition, really."

The nervous dread that had been coursing through America's veins since he set his sights on England churned and faded, replaced by a growing irritation. He'd gotten himself all worked up, imagined the worst and prepared for it, only for things to fall into the usual back and forth arguing.

He bit the inside of his cheek as slumped in his seat, his gaze resting on the clutter of the table. Some had circled newspaper headlines, or were papers with notes written in the margins. It made America's head hurt to try and read them upside down, and knowing it would serve only to fuel his anger, he refrained.

One sheet stuck out from the rest, more of a drawing or diagram than written word. It bore a large circle with numbers and astrological signs drawn on the outer edges. America pulled it closer, squinting as he made out the details. There was a web of crisscrossing lines near the center, overlapping and overwhelming one another.

"Do you like it?" England asked

America peered over the paper. England's demeanor had changed. Gone was the tenseness in his shoulders and lips, replaced by an easy, serene quality. His balled up fists had retreated to his lap, and the rise and fall of his chest was a smooth, calm motion. The biggest change of all was that he was smiling.

England's smile was like abstract art. It wasn't something that you could really appreciate at first. It was almost unattractive in the beginning, or at least odd. There was a necessary warm**-**up period and repeated exposure was vital. Sometimes even an explanation. But then one day it would click and you'd never look back.

America looked back to the drawing, then again to England's smile. There was something he wasn't getting. Whatever this was, England was proud of it and expected America to feel the same. America mimicked England's smile, forcing his eyes wide with mock interest. Whatever this was, it looked like it could get England off his back.

"I way like it," America said with a nod. "Real cool and all."

"I made it for you," England intoned graciously. He said it with the piety of a man offering beggars food and clothing, as though he expected instantaneous and unending thanks.

"For real? Man, you're too good to me." America turned the diagram on its side, his head cocking in an attempt to better make it out. "I like the drawings and stuff. I mean c'mon, the design? Lovin' it."

"It's a natal chart, you know."

America's eyebrows rose a notch with a confused kind of surprise. The term rung a bell in the recesses of his memory, but it was far off and too faint, unable to fully reveal its meaning. "A natal chart, eh? Leave it to you to know what to get for the man who has everything."

England completed the transformation from grumpy old man to tame gentlemen with something akin to a humble titter.

"It's not perfect, of course. I tried to get France to help me with a few dates and times but he looked at me like I'd gone wobbly." England's smile found itself on the endangered list when he spoke of France. Well, that and the 'gone wobbly' bit.

America scratched at his cheek, making a mental note that discussion regarding other nations was most likely a path to disaster**.** Instead, he continued to focus on the natal chart itself. He laid it flat on the table and pointed to one of the many detailed symbols.

"What's this about?" he asked sweetly.

"That, my dear boy, is Saturn. In the eleventh house, to be exact. And there, right next to it in the tenth, is Mars."

"Wait, I have eleven houses?"

"No, you have twelve. We all do."

"Oh." America rubbed at the corner of his eye, then took to playing with his glasses. While no longer endangered, England's smile had relocated to the protected species list. As an enthusiast of the thirty-two tooth salute, America wasn't about to be responsible for the death of England's smile. "So is this like a horoscope?"

"Yes."

"Could you, like, explain it to me a bit?" England looked as though he thought America might be yanking his chain, so for good measure America added, "Pretty please?"

England gave a perfunctory sniff before saying, "I suppose, but don't think I'm letting you off the hook."

The irritation that had been eating at America leveled off as England came around the table to take a seat beside him. His mind numbed as he set to listening, watching England point out the planets and their various correlations to his personality and future. He dutifully explained that many of America's planets tended to find themselves in the ninth and tenth house, while precious few lay in the twelveth. This was a good thing, according to England.

He spoke of the Sun being in Cancer while Aquarius had taken custody of the Moon. There was talk of squares and sextiles and trines, of words America had never heard before. England elaborated on the many lines and their varying influences on their life.

While had a hard time wrapping his mind around the chart, he enjoyed listening to England speak. There was no guarded edge in his voice, no hint of disappointment or disapproval. There was nothing but the genuine love of speaking to others in an attempt to educate. It was the England that America had grown up with, the one that was never too busy to explain the world's finer workings and felt no question was too small to be asked.

"So what does this all mean?" America said when England had slowed down. "Can it predict the future?"

"In a sense it can," England said, his lips drawn into a pensive line. "But like I said, this one's really not all that spot on." He traced a finger along an offending line. "Like here, your chart says you'll probably be doing some worldly traveling in the next few months."

"What's so wrong with that?"

"I'm certainly not going anywhere soon."

_Oh boy_, America thought. _Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. _"I see," was all he said aloud.

England's smile thrived, America's died. This was not going to be a simple visit. This was not something America was going to be able to walk away from. America rubbed his hands over his face and gave a deep sigh. He was going to need to make a game plan real snappy-like if he was going to get out of England's house and back to Russia's waiting arms in one piece.

"Yo England, thanks for the lecture and all but I gotta go use the little cowboys room," America said as he stood, nearly bolting.

"You know where it is," England said. "I'll be in the garden. Come find me when you've finished up. And," he added, "do change into something more comfortable. I've left some clothes on your bed."

America gave a nod before hurrying away. He headed straight for the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He ran the taps for noise and took off his glasses. He put his glasses back on. He took them again and started to wipe at the lenses with his shirt. He sat on the edge of the tub and took a deep breath.

This was kind of a totally super-bad turn for the worst, America decided. He rocked slightly, the back and forth centering his thoughts. He put his glasses on a final time and stood, taking a quick glance about to see about any possible escape routes. The singular win dow above the sink proved to be his best option. His only option.

America turned the taps off and loosened his tie. The fuddy-duddy getup wouldn't exactly aid him, but he wasn't about to ditch something Russia gave him for the sake of an easier getaway. With careful movements he got his foot up on the edge of the sink, his hand wrestling with the window's latch in the meantime.

He had his other foot out the window when he heard the opening creak of hinges. Instantly his head snapped to the bathroom's door, which had nothing to show. His second reaction was to poke his head out the window and take a good look around.

America thought he might be in England's backyard. He had a vague memory of it as being green, spotted with flowers of all sorts, and generally well-maintained. Somewhere between America's last visit and the present, the yard of his memories had been traded in for a miniature jungle.

The grass was tall and the weeds were high. Flowers sprawled every which way, untamed by time. The only signs of civilization were a group of gardening instruments bunched up by the back door. Which England happened to be exiting.

America ducked back inside, pulling his leg along with him. His footing became unsure, slipping off the sink and forcing him to hit the floor. He scrabbled back to his feet in an instant, fingers scrabbling against wood as they grabbed the window and shut it. It closed with a rattling slam, and he cringed away from the sound, counting each breath he took, listening for any sign that England had heard him.

When he heard no tramping of feet or raised voice, America ventured another peek outside, a tentative glance from behind the safety of glass. England seemed not to have heard the noise, as he had taken to observing at the lawn mower, his hands on his hips as he looked at it, apparently waiting for it to get to work.

America's shoulders slumped as he drew back. With his escape route now guarded, and England expecting him at any minute, there wasn't much he could do when it came to escaping. America exited the bathroom, trudging along the hallway as he did his best to remember where the guest room was.

It took him three tries to find the right door, and each wrong room he found left his heart feeling heavier. Gone was the prim, tidy house he'd always been afraid to bring dirt into. Now he was more afraid of tracking dirt out of them.

His room was the sole survival of the fallout. The color of the walls he could actually see, and the floor was visible. It made his lips tingle unpleasantly to think that after all these years, England still took care of his room.

The sheets on his bed were crisp and clean, the pillows perfectly fluffed while a freshly starched outfit was laid out or him to wear. Posters with athletes and flags for various teams were pinned up perfectly. The track marks proved the carpet to be freshly vacuumed.

America walked over to his bed while shrugging off his clothes and stepping out of his shoes. The outfit on the bed was vaguely familiar, too dated to be cool, but not enough to be considered retro. There was a period during the previous decade where England had figured that if he bought America enough clothes that he'd have a proper wardrobe at England's house, he'd stay more often.

It had worked at first. America was eager to show England his appreciation and would often turn up on his doorstep if he was passing through, able to turn up without so much as a travel bag in his hands. Food and board and clothes were always provided and he thought it was a step in the right direction for the both of them.

Things would go smoothly for a few days, England happy to dote on America and have him as company. It was the first, and by far the best, phase of a three-phase cycle.

The second could start within mere hours, but tended to set in after a day or two. One morning England wouldn't like how America made his bed, or decide that America had set the table with the wrong forks. He'd start to monitor America's every move, dictate each aspect of his life while growing more distant and aloof.

It was like being smothered without ever being touched.

The third and final phase was a somber one. With the freedom to come and go as he pleased, America would disappear as easily as he'd appeared. He'd tell England that it was time for him to head home, his gaze averted and his fingers fidgeting as he spoke, and entertain the idea that England might give him a hug goodbye.

Instead, England would give a quiet assent and see him off with thermos of tea and a bag full of scones until it was time to start all over again. After several repetitions of the episodes with zero change in the results, America had stopped dropping by.

America groaned inwardly at the memories as he pulled a shirt over his head, smoothing it automatically with his hands. The pants that came next were a tad too tight around his midsection, a reminder of his leisurely lifestyle and lack of activity beyond padding around after Russia.

The sound of feet shuffling along carpet started up before America could dwell too much on Russia. He looked over his shoulder to see England in the doorway, leaning against the frame as he swiped the back of his hand across the forehead.

"Taking your time**,**are we?" England asked.

"Something like that." America crouched down and set to work on tying the tennis shoes he found at the foot of the bed. A prickling in the back of his neck told him England was watching his every move.

"Feeling warmer?" England asked. "S'pose you will after some time in the garden, at least."

America looked at his hands. While the tremor was nowhere near as strong as before, there was still a slight, constant shiver. He jammed his hands in his pockets and stood up, nodding thoughtlessly at England before following him out to the backyard.

A small patch had been cut out of the jungle, the lawn mower having taken to getting some work done. The trowel had moved into the vacated clearing and brought company with it, mainly a few seed packets and a set of pruning shears.

"You'll be a dear and cut the grass, won't you?" England asked airily.

America nodded again.

"That's my boy. Do take a break if you get tired, though. Mind the hollyhock and don't step on the hydrangea," England babbled, his voice dwindling as he pulled on a pair of gardening gloves and picked up the shears. He took to snipping at an overgrown rosebush.

America bumbled over to the lawn mower and began to dutifully push it along in neat rows, the blades of the mower whirring as he went. He let his mind drift to Russia, speculated how he was reacting. Probably all calm and collected like he always was, Mr. Cool and Careless.

Russia would figure out what to do. He'd become the brains of the operation while America lay back and lived the high life. He was probably pounding the pavement already, sniffing out clues and hitting up leads while America toiled away in England's backyard. It was only a matter of time before he and Russia were reunited.

And then what?

England seemed to think that whatever changes were going on with America were due to 'acting out', which certainly didn't bode well, and without a way to ask what had happened without revealing his ignorance, there was no way America could find out without having to piece together the information on his own.

America sniffled and kicked at a dirt clod. Ignorance was bliss, as the saying went. His life wasn't perfect in the least, but it was easy and comfortable for the most part. He liked the long evenings spent at Russia's side, the ebb and flow of meaningless conversation and the brushing of bare skin as they moved about in bed, able to sleep only when tucked up against one another.

America dreaded the prospect of having to go a night without Russia nearby. The beat of Russia's heart under his hands was a metronome that America's own heart strove to mimic. The steady, deep breaths another placating constant. And his soothing voice was ever-present when America would wake from a nightmare, lips at his ear, whispering quieting words as arms wound around him.

A pang of loneliness and fear jolted through America's spine, racing up and down for a moment before curling in his stomach like a sleepy cat. None of this would have happened if he hadn't made that stupid phone call to England. If he'd sat and waited for Russia like he was supposed to things would be hunky dory.

America frowned to himself and chanced a glance at England. England had matched his frown with one of his own, but instead of the usual irritation and discontent it held, it was one filled with a concerned confusion.

"Something up?" America asked.

"You should take a break." England patted a spot of clover beside him. "You've been mowing the same patch of grass for ten minutes."

America's frown deepened as he looked around. There was a square of cleared away grass and that was about it. He must've been going the same area again and again without noticing. He sighed and let go of the mower, padding over to England before flopping down.

"Sorry about that, my mind is kinda elsewhere."

"I must admit mine has been doing something quite similar recently." England cut off a half-bloomed rose and gave it to America, who idly plucked at its petals. "But things will get better now."

America finished with the rose and took to picking clover, pulling off their trios of leaves. "Doesn't feel like it," he said.

"Well you're just being difficult."

"Maybe." America huffed and groaned like an old, tired dog. "I can't stay here, y'know."

There was a moment of silence, a deep breath, and then the peculiarly large _snap_ of a branch being cut off. It dropped in front of America's face with a muffled thud, the thorns that lined it nearly skimming his nose.

"I don't see why not," England said briskly.

"All my junk and stuff is at my hotel." America almost surprised himself with the logic. "They're gonna throw it away if I ditch."

England took a moment to mull it over, his shears devouring the rose bushes, branches falling in heaps. America could nearly hear the inner argument in his head. If he said no to America going back to the hotel, he'd have no justification. America's belongings would be tossed and England would be to blame.

"I'll buy you new things," England finally said.

"I don't want new things. I want my things."

"I'll call the hotel and tell them to hold on to your belongings then."

"I dunno their number."

"What about the name?"

"I think it started with "The.""

"Then how do you expect to get back?"

"Serendipity," America said, his voice ringing with finality.

"Oh, please. No one really uses that word. That's a word that belongs in books, not in conversation."

America barked out a rough laugh. "Fine. I'm gonna throw money at a cabbie and hope he gets me there, and then⌐" he broke off, counting the leaves on the latest clover he plucked. "Look at this, I found a four-leaf clover." He held it out for England to see.

Without so much as a word England took it, and after a moment of careful scrutiny, rolled it between the fingers of his gloves. It plummeted down in a tiny, mashed heap when he was done with it. America stared at it for a second, eyes focused on the now-ambiguous blob of green.

"You have three seconds to explain what that was about before I get seriously pissed off," America said calmly.

"What is a four-leaf clover to you?" England countered, his voice matching America's in tone.

"It's rare and lucky, and yeah."

"That's all?"

"I get the feeling I'm in for a lecture I didn't sign up for." America sat up and stretched.

"Having a four-leaf clover grants you the ability to see faeries, or so it's said."

"So then what's the big deal? Wouldn't that be a good thing for me?"

"Yes and no. I'd quite like for you to come to terms with the existence of the Fae world, but having the clover also protects one from magic."

America waited for England to go on, give him further reason as to why he had the right to smash up a defenseless piece of fauna. When no in-depth explanation followed, America piped up again.

"And how does that all apply to me? I'm not conjurin' up no magic the last time I checked. And, uh, wait. Hold up." America paused to organize his thoughts, to pick his words carefully. "Have you been trying some kind of crazy voodoo on me lately?"

"It's not voodoo," England argued. "It's harmless white magic."

"You promised me you wouldn't do that stuff to me anymore. Seriously, feels all weird."

"It's magic, boy. It feels weird at first, but you'll get used to─"

"That's not what I mean, England. I mean I don't like the idea. I don't want you snippin' off locks of my hair or burning an effigy of me to supposedly keep me safe. Think of it like praying, okay? People who don't believe in God and all that stuff don't feel like praying is useful, and they might get peeved if people pray for them. Get it?"

England narrowed his gaze, his eyes filled with a heat that made America's conviction wilt. "And so you want me to stop practicing magic?"

"I never said that. Just do magic thingies on people who feel like it'll work."

"I know it works," England said primly.

America shook his head and dropped the conversation. He could see phase two looming on the horizon, steadily chugging ahead. Magic was a hot topic with England, and while he could talk about its benefits for hours, the instant someone doubted it he'd throw up a defense made of sharp words. It was best to leave him alone when he got like that.

"I'm gonna head inside," America said as he got to his feet.

He wandered inside, leaving his shoes at the back door, careful not to cause an uproar from England by tracking dirt inside. He sat himself in the living room, staring glumly at the mess, half-motivated to clean it and half-scared that he'd get yelled at for it.

Instead he sat back, eyes wandering to knick knacks and pieces of trash scattered about. He glanced at the phone out of the corner of his eye, as though it were a shy animal that might flee if it noticed it was being watched. He debated making a call before realising how hopeless the idea was.

He didn't know Russia's number, and Canada couldn't exactly pick up when he was thousands of miles away from his home. Not to mention he had instigated this, betrayed America by paging England like it was some sort of message, a signal that is was time to act.

America gave the phone the cold shoulder, his fingers fidgeting along the coffee table as he looked for something to distract him. There were great works and tomes of poetry, newspapers and sheets of parchment with symbols and words he didn't understand.

He pulled one of the newspapers from the stack. He read the headline four times in his head, mouthed it twice, and said it aloud once.

"United States of America becomes United Russian States."

His eyes continued to skim the words after they'd registered, hoping it was some terrible typo, thinking that if he read it one last time it'd change. His heart would hitch at the end without fail. He found his fingers tracing the letters. Gently at first, then scratching, harder and harder.

He moved on only when his fingers had ripped right through the headline with a tearing sound. He barely understood the rest of the article, reading a few words at a time before jumping ahead a line or two. It chased sentences back and forth, trying to make sense of what he was reading.

They said it was to be expected, a thing everyone had been waiting for. It'd come after months of speculation. First were the talks, the secretive meetings of the two countries' respective leaders. Then the deals, the promises. The joint military venture, combined units. Russian was now mandatory in American schools, and vice versa. No one had really been surprised when the official name change was finally announced.

America read through the article four times before he really _got_ it. There was a sudden sweeping sensation in his chest, like someone had taken a broom to his insides, whisked everything that was him under a rug. He wasn't America anymore, he was this─ this other country. He didn't know who he was anymore.

"It's a right shame if you ask me," England said from over America's shoulder.

America licked his lips compulsively. He couldn't think in words at the moment, let alone respond in them. How could Russia do this to him? They were friends, more than that, even. Russia had mentioned a certain union, a confederacy, but had said nothing of a name change. Was that supposed to be an unsaid given?

England sat next to America on the couch, the cushions sighing beneath his weight. He made a few noises, started to speak then covered it with a rough cough. America folded the paper up and set it down. He wanted to tear it up into a million little pieces, throw it to the fire and watched as it burned away to nothing but ashes. He didn't want it to be real.

"You'll still call me 'America', won't you?" America asked. His tongue was too big for his mouth, rested awkwardly against his teeth.

England made a noise in the back of his throat. "I don't know. Why not 'Alfred'? It's a nice enough name, don't you think?"

"Don't call me that," America said. He called himself by that name. It was the name of his real self, the self that liked sleeping in on Sundays and watching Lifetime movie marathons and volunteering at soup kitchens. His vulnerable self. The one that _felt_.

America didn't feel. That was what humans did. America was a country. He took in information, processed it, and did what he had to. Alfred was the one who stressed and worried and sometimes cried. But he was also the one who smiled and laughed and enjoyed himself. He got the good and the bad. America simply _got_.

"I don't see why it's such a problem for you. I mean, I gave you that name after all," England said. His pitch had taken on a wheedling quality.

"Well there you go. You gave it to me, it's mine. I'm gonna do what I want with it."

"Fine," England huffed.

America sat in silence, staring at his hands, thinking of what they had done. The papers they had penned, the documents they'd signed. The good, the bad, the beautiful and the terrible. The guns they'd held and the children they'd cradled. They'd been useless to stop what had happened. _He'd_ been useless.

England leaned forward and snatched the paper from the table, murmuring as he read the headline.

"Really," he sniffed, "United Russian States. How stuffy. It's like they're trying to snuff you out. That's so like Russia though, isn't it? He always wants people to become one with him. Not coexist, but become one. He's off his rocker, that one."

America mumbled in response. That was like Russia, after all. He didn't ask for things, he took them, he used force and cunning and everything in between. He hid it all behind a sweet voice and a childish face. But the way he kissed America, slow and tender and gentle, like he was afraid he might break something, there was no cunning in that.

And yet he'd run around behind America's back, changed who he was at his very core. Russia hadn't lost his deceitful side, not by a long shot. America couldn't wrap his mind around it completely. His thoughts seemed to stop, freeze each time he approached the idea of betrayal.

"I'm going to sleep," America announced, rising abruptly. He wanted to be alone.

"But it's only─"

"Jetlag."

America was halfway to his room before England could respond. His voice was muted, a sound in the back of America's head. He shut the door with his foot, paused to listen for footsteps. England didn't follow. America did a swan dive onto his bed, burying his face in a pillow.

He tried to think, tried to process, but it was useless. His thoughts were like a radio station just out of reach, the words and ideas static, hard to listen to**,** let alone make out. They buzzed inside his head, scratched his insides like so much sandpaper.

The silence of the room was unbearable, he needed something to cover up the noise. America's hand groped blindly at the bedside, hitting baubles and trinkets that he'd amassed on his vacations in the country, finally found the remote he was looking for.

He turned the TV on without even looking, listened to the sharp buzz at it came to life, the murmur of the program. America sat up in bed, remote in hand, ready to flip through channels until he found something relaxing.

Instead, he was treated to a scene of overt violence and shouting. He cringed away at first, finger pressing on the volume, quieting the ruckus. Then he saw it, recognized the situation. The gnawing, the blood, the low, inhuman moans. _Zombies_.

America immediately thought back to that morning. It seemed so far away now, an event that happened at another place, at another time. Russia checking in on him while he showered, Russia turning on the zombie movie, Russia getting him breakfast. Russia saying he loved him before America had left with Canada.

Why would he do those things if he wanted to do nothing but deceive? There was nothing to gain by watching movies he probably cared nothing for or eating food that didn't agree with his tastes. Saying he loved America though, there was the trick. Those words were like a leash tethering him to America.

America shook his head and rubbed his palms against his cheeks. He was projecting, that was all. Russia wasn't using love to keep America with him. Not that Russia wasn't going to have a lot to account for, but manipulation to such a rotten degree wasn't on the list.

His eyes flicking back to the television, America settled down in bed, trying his hardest to throw his attention back to the shambling, undead creatures. The channel must have been playing an all-day marathon. He ignored the polite knocking at his door when it came, turned the volume up when he heard a faint whisper, an inquiry as to whether or not he'd allow England to come in.

One movie blended in to the next, each the same story of the initial outbreak, the spread of infection and how survivors managed to live. Or didn't. America jumped at all the right moments, flinched at the sudden scares, and rode the momentary waves of adrenaline and shocked fear as the day wore on.

When the door creaked open and a tray of food was pushed inside. The meal gave off a bitter, almost acrid odor that stung at America's eyes. He ignored the food, ignored how dark the room had become, how he hadn't moved in hours. Instead, he lay there and thought of nothing beyond who he thought might die next in the movie.

When it came time to sleep and America turned the TV off, he found himself unable to close his eyes. The images he'd seen stayed with him. He had the distinct impression that each time he blinked, his would find something─ _someone_─ stuck to the ceiling, looking down on him and ready to pounce.

He yanked the covers over his head and tried not to think about the impending weight that was sure to land on him. His pulled his feet up close to his body, trying to protect them from any attacks, wary of teeth and fingers snaking beneath the sheets.

His heart beat a frantic tattoo, a wild dance that refused to cease. He focused on his breath, tried to force it into even, steady puffs. The air beneath the sheets became stale, hot, unbreathable. America told himself again and again that it couldn't hurt to inch them down, let some fresh air in.

America lifted the blanket, welcoming the cool rush of air. He forced his eyes shut and tried to count sheep. Soft, white, fluffy. Not at all threatening. He concentrated on their big eyes and soft features. How cute they were. Most of all, he tried not to think of zombies.

It eventually worked. America found his thoughts lingering on farm animals instead of the deceased, on rolling hills of green grass and golden fields of wheat. His mind was weightless, balanced on the edge of slumber, warm and contented.

It was then, as he was ready to sleep, fading fast, that the tap, tap, tapping came at his window.

* * *

A/N:

-That's if for the first half of the last chapter! Sorry for taking so, so long to get it up. I have lots of excuses for the wait, but that's exactly what they are, excuses.

-I've been waiting to post a new chapter to announce this, so here I go. I was contacted in February about a possible comic adaptation, and since then eleven pages have been done! I highly recommend you go read it right this instant. They can't be found on YourWaywardDestiny's dA page. You can also find her on unter the name Beyond-The-Winter.

GO NOW.

-As for this chapter itself, I gotta say...

Usually I try to do my research most aspects of my writing, but when it comes to astrology and natal charts I am way out of my league. I tried to at least get a semblance of an education but when I see all those signs and lines and colors my brain comes to a screeching halt and thinks of less complicated things. Like recycling bins and how registers work.

I cannot understand astrology. Mad props to those who do, though.

-When it comes to England and his magic, I feel like England gets more involved with it as he loses control on life. It's something he does to feel in control again, like he can truly sway world events.

I don't think he really even sees how kooky he gets himself.

-Thank you to everyone who has read and commented on this story so far! I appreciate all of you beyond words and am greatly appreciative of all the wonderful people I have met through this story.

P.S. If you have read the entire thing up until this point, congratulations. This story is actually longer than The Prisoner of Azkaban by about 10,000 words.


	23. Chapter 23

Author's Note: This is **not** the last chapter. Originally it was meant to be, yes, but considering how long it was getting and how everyone was patiently waiting, I've broken it up. This chapter ends at the start of the final scene instead. I hope to have that scene all finished and written up within the next month.

Thank you very, very much to everyone who has stuck around to read this. I cannot apologize enough with how slow I've gotten these final few chapters out, and it means a lot to me to know that there are people who still read it.

xxx

* * *

xxx

* * *

At first the _tap tap tap_ at the window startled America. It crawled under his skin and curled around his nerves, cold and damp and unshakable. His eyes snapped open, frozen in a petrified stare, seeing nothing but the black of the sheets he was hidden beneath. His fingers twitched and gripped, grabbing handfuls of bedspread as he listened.

It was halfway between intentionally rhythmic and a natural noise without a beat, nearly lost beneath the sound of the wind outside, howling as it squeezed through too-small places. But there the tapping was, ready to return when the sounds outside died down. It itched and clawed, dragged itself across the pane of the glass and spoke to America.

It spoke to the fear in him, replayed all the images he'd watched through the day. He thought of decayed skin, fleshless fingers and it made his entire body quiver with unpleasant anticipation. He counted the seconds in his head, got them mixed up with his rapid fire heartbeat.

It was there, in his blood and ears and at the window, and then it wasn't. America had started counting on his fingers, like a child. _Five minutes_, he promised himself. _If it doesn't go away in five minutes, I'll get up. _He kept starting over, losing his place, then chastising himself. By the time he pulled it together there was simply nothing more to listen to than his churning insides and the wind.

A tree, America figured. Nothing more than the scratch of branches. His imagination was running wild with him these days, and his movie marathon hadn't helped. He slowly inched the covers off as he steeled his nerves, ready to pull them back up in case the noise should start again.

He eased out of bed, bare toes curling against the hardwood floor when they touched down. He crept as quietly as a mouse to the door, cringing as the knob groaned and squeaked under his hand.

The hallway was dark and empty, the floorboards groaning under America's steps. He stumbled onwards, one hand on the wall for guidance, the other in front of him feeling for obstacles. He edged along, making his way towards England's room.

He knocked lightly on the door when he reached it, holding his breath as he pressed his ear against it, listening for a response. Nothing. He tried a second time, and when he found again that there was no response, he quietly opened the door.

The scent that hit him when he peeked inside was stuffy and hot, like it'd been breathed too many times. There was a sickly, underlying stench, like old, molded bread and yeasty smell of beer. America suppressed a gag as he entered the room.

"England?" he whispered. "You awake in here?"

"I am now," came England's muffled reply.

"Uh, okay. Good, I guess. Do you mind if I come in for a sec?"

"You shouldn't have watched all those movies."

"This has nothing to do with movies," America said.

"If you say so."

America shut the door behind him and shuffled toward the sound of England's voice, squinting against the darkness in the hope that he'd be able to make out where he was going. His feet tangled on soft lumps as he went. Clothes, he assumed. And there was the occasion crinkle of a food wrapper underfoot.

He crawled into England's bed without a word, weaseling his way beneath a single sheet on the bed. The mattress was bare beneath his skin. America could feel the quilted pattern of it, polyester scratching at his skin. England drew the sheet to him, hugged it close to his body as he scooted away to make room for America.

"Is there a tree outside my window?" America asked.

"Bleeding hell," England mumbled. "You woke me up to ask about trees?"

"Well, no. Not exactly but─"

"America, do you want to sleep in here tonight?" England's voice was gruff, bleary with exhaustion and edged with annoyance. He was skipping the games, going straight for the jugular.

"Kinda, yeah."

"Then go to sleep."

America nodded in the darkness, staying silent for fear of putting England in an even worse mood. He tried not to think of when he was little, when England would tuck him in tight and talk him through his fears, promise there was no boogeyman under the bed, check three times to be sure of it.

England had seemed so big back then. Larger than life. A man that had walked from the pages of a children's book of tales. He'd been the gallant knight and the ruffian pirate. He'd lived all walks of life and had gained knowledge from them all, knew each answer to America's questions. He was a wise man with all the courage of a lion and the quick wit of a fox.

But he'd become someone else. A man with a temper and no patience for trifling matters. He was bold, curt, and yet somehow reserved. His emotions seemed locked away now, like an embarrassment, a shame he couldn't bear. The gentility America remembered from his childhood was gone.

Even now England was edging away. Each inch America made was another inch that pushed England further from him. He tried to be sneaky about it, roll slow as a snail, quiet and unobtrusive, yet England appeared to be all too aware of the movements. He was less subtle about his own, huffing and puffing, grunting as he scooched across the bed.

America gave up on getting any closer when England had reached the end of his side. There was no use in kicking England out of his own bed, he'd only stay in his mood all that much longer. His default tended to be grumpy anyway, and America had no desire to kick it up a notch.

Instead, he lay quietly under the sheet, wondering if he was imagining how it was slowly being taken from him, stolen inch by inch. America curled up on his side, eyes burning holes into the back of England's head. He was definitely, most assuredly, being a cover-hog.

A warm embarrassment settled in America's chest, thick and cloying and overwhelming his thoughts. Here he was, a grown man hiding out in the bed of the person who had raised him, somehow surprised by the fact that he wasn't being coddled as he had been when he was a child. He wrestled with the fact that England had no interest in sharing his bed. He wanted his single flimsy sheet and his dirty mattress all to himself, and America was not part of the picture.

There was a ghost in America that wanted to get out of the house. That wanted to leave his body and mind and do nothing but dissipate, fade away into a nothingness that had no worries or problems. But he was stuck in this uncomfortable bed in this uncomfortable house with a man who had a talent for making him uncomfortable. America's discomfort seemed to have found itself in an unholy kind of trifecta that there was no escape from.

America did his best to sate the ghost by rolling out of bed, feet thumping softly on the floor as he left the room. His fear had been lessened by embarrassment, muted and watered down by England's silent rejection. Not that he was about to go to sleep in his own room, though. Maybe, when the morning came, he'd solve the mystery of the tree branch. Until then he was crashing on the couch.

He doubled back to his room to snag the covers from his bed, dragging them through the hallway and into the living room. He flung them across the couch, creating a rumpled nest of covers he could hide under. He eased beneath them with a sigh, kicked out with his legs and curled his toes, buried himself as deep as he could. The cushions he fashioned into makeshift pillows.

America shut his eyes, but sleep refused to come. Instead thoughts of England ran through his mind. He thought of how insistent he was that America stay with him. That soft, mad glow in his eyes. How overbearing he was, all the time distancing himself. It drove America crazy in the most terrible of ways.

Gritting his teeth, America set to counting sheep again. He'd do well up until about fifteen or so, and once even got to twenty-four, but without fail his mind would stray, the gentle sheep morphing into his worries. He worried about what he was supposed to do, what tomorrow would bring. When would he see Russia again? _How_ could he see Russia again?

He yearned to go back to a simple life where he made his own decisions, planned his own life and slept in his own bed in his own apartment and played God to a measly ant farm. Someone else was probably living there now, in that place he'd called home. He hoped they were nice people with nice lives.

Faintly, America registered the sound of someone moving about. He burrowed deeper into the covers, eyelids heavy while his mind still worked. A weak light trickled out of the kitchen, and America he heard the beeping and whirring of the microwave.

The lights turned back off just as his eyes were getting used to them, and there was the steady noise of footsteps approaching the couch. A hand found its way next to America's head, not touching it, but _there_. Like it could move at any second, give America's hair an affectionate ruffle or pat his head, but it had the self control to abstain. England cleared his throat.

"You still awake, boy?" he asked.

"Don't you know it," America said, stifling a yawn.

"I brought you something to help you sleep," England said.

The hand by America's head moved, found his wrist for the briefest of seconds and gripped. The touch was cool and impersonal, almost clammy. A gesture done out of force. His wrist was held up and a glass was pushed into his hand. America sat up and gripped it, England's hands falling away when he did.

He lifted the glass to his mouth and sipped. It was filled with warmed milk. It brought back faint memories of being a child, of waking from nightmares to find England already at his bedside. And like in his childhood, the milk had a strange undercurrent, a slightly burnt note hidden beneath it that made America think of oak trees. As a child he'd chalked it up to England's unusual talents in the kitchen, but now he knew exactly what it what.

"Did you put whiskey in this?" America said.

"Only a touch. It always settled you down as a boy."

America's lips pressed together, set into a thin pale line. It was so like England to pull this sort of thing, decide he knew what was best for America without consulting with him. He called the shots and wouldn't be questioned. Not like Russia, who'd hand America a bottle of vodka and tell him to gab his heart out. He wouldn't edge away in bed and act like America was pestering him.

"Well, uh, thanks," America said as he took another sip.

He listened as England fussed about in the dark, his nails clicking and scraping against a table near the end of the couch. There was a soft static and buzz as a radio was turned on, the volume too low, then too loud, then too low again before finding a balance. A steady voice began to drone about weather and shipping routes.

"I didn't mean to get so cross with you earlier," England said, and it was the closest thing America had heard to a genuine apology from him in years.

"S'cool, it happens."

"It does," England said with a sigh, turning the radio up. "Now you get some sleep, lad. We have much to do tomorrow." And as he walked again, footsteps light and nearly soundless, he stopped to add, "And there's no tree outside your window."

* * *

The buttery-yellow light of the early afternoon sun woke America. There was a bad taste in his mouth, morning breath and mucus combined. His hair stood sideways when he went to run a hand through it, and his glasses had fallen off while he slept.

He migrated in a great _thump_ to the floor, hands blindly patting the ground. The sound of the voices on the radio was gone, instead replaced by the clang and clatter of pots and pans, the rousing smell of food and the sudden, high shriek of the smoke alarm.

America found his glasses hiding beneath the couch, taking a moment to polish them off before putting them back on his face. There was a laziness in his bones that made his body leaden, made the floor so much more comfortable than it should have been. He took a moment to let his consciousness flutter in and out of sleep, barely kept awake by England's cursing as he battled with the smoke detector.

As the continued screams of the detector went on and England fought a losing battle, America finally forced himself to his feet. He trudged along to the kitchen, feet dragging along the floor, one hand slipping up under his shirt to scratch at his belly. He tottered into the kitchen with a sleepy wave.

"G'morning," he said around a yawn.

England was standing on a stool, hands held high over his head as he fiddled with the smoke detector. There was the smell of charred toast and melting plastic, and flames danced on burners covered with frying pans. As England continued to go at the detector, America went to the stove, turned everything off and plucked the burnt bread from the toaster.

He grabbed a plate and spooned rubbery eggs onto it. He found some fresh bread and buttered it. The tea he passed on. The alarm stopped as America took his seat, England grumbling triumphantly under his breath as he held before him a pair of batteries, as though they were dog tags ripped from around an enemy's neck.

America dug into his food with an unreserved gusto. It wasn't the best he'd ever had, wasn't anything like McDonald's or the food Russia could cook up, but it was something. He took to eating more quickly as England settled himself, putting away the stool and smoothing down his blotched apron.

When England sat across from him, America took to staring at the table. He looked over the design of the tablecloth, made out faces and animals in the repeating pattern. He took in only snapshots of the newspaper that was spread on the table, glancing over words like 'military' and 'upheaval' without much interest. It wasn't worth getting worked up over. At least not around England.

He did notice the puppies and the kittens though, the highlighted streaks under their names. They were newspaper clippings, carefully cut and arranged. America leaned in to look at their cute, fluffy little faces. One was named Duke**;** he was lonely and scared and wanted a forever home. Then there was Daisy, who was found in a dumpster with her siblings, friendly as anything.

"Pick out which you'd like best," England said.

America looked up at him, gnawing on the tines of his fork. "What d'ya mean?"

"One of the animals. They're all up for adoption. I know you and your animals, always needing something to take care of."

A flush of anger swept up America's neck. _Look who's talking,_ he was tempted to answer, but he bit his tongue. He picked up the clippings one at a time, letting himself get lost in those dark, doleful eyes and found himself taking in their stories, his heart curdling and crying at some of their tales.

He found he especially liked a dog named Rupert, seven years old and still full of life. One eye was clouded with glaucoma, his left leg withered and odd. There was a chunk missing from one ear and his lips pulled back in an unmistakable grin. He was a soldier, a fighter, struggled on past all the tiny Chihuahuas and sweet-faced cats to sit himself in front of America.

"I kinda like him," America said, pushing the clip over to England.

"I thought you might. I'll take you to see him at the shelter today after we get you some new clothes."

America's teeth pulled at his lower lip as the reality seeped into his thoughts. New clothes, a dog. Those things were tethers, reasons for him to stay. They were tangible guilt trips that could be held up when he left. Why let England buy him clothes if he didn't plan on sticking around long enough to wear them? Why adopt a dog he'd abandon in a day or two?

"I don't really wanna do much today, y'know? I'm kinda tuckered out with jet lag and all," America said, the tiredness in his voice no act at all.

"That's fine," England said, his smile small and conniving, barely hidden behind his cup of tea. "I'll pick him up for you."

"I─ Look, that's a cool offer. Really, it is, but getting a pet is a big decision, don't you think? I mean, what if I have to book it for some reason? I don't want to end up dumping some dog off with you."

"His name is Rupert, America. He is not 'some dog.'"

"Right, right. Rupert. I don't want to dump Rupert on you and have that hanging over your head."

"You needn't worry about that in the slightest," England said airily. "You won't be going anywhere."

"You can't just say that, England. I know it's been awhile since we chilled and all, but have you ever thought that maybe I have a life I need to attend to? I can't put things on hold for the sake of making you happy."

Before the words were out of his mouth America regretted them. England was big on tact, on hiding behind fancy, inoffensive words that meant diddly-squat. But one wrong step and the claws came out. The gentlemanly facade melted away, exposing the bitter person beneath who had all the cruel words in the world at his disposal.

"You're acting like a child," was England's first, and most familiar, blow.

"Great, let's start with that again. Here, how about I get it all out of the way? You call me childish, I call you controlling, you say something about it being for my own good or whatever. Then we have a shouting match and you pretend I don't exist for a few hours."

England's face turned a ruddy, sickly hue reminiscent of ham.

"Do you think you're clever, lad?" he hissed.

"No. But I do think I don't want to go through all of this. It doesn't get us anywhere. Because I'm not a kid, I'm not childish. I don't think you get that."

"You never listen to me─"

"No, I don't really do that anymore," America cut in.

"Children don't listen," England returned, teeth gritted and eyes narrowed.

"Children listen. That's all they do. They get up when you tell them to, sit at a desk for eight hours a day, take notes when the teachers says so and go to lunch when the bell tells them to. When do they go to sleep? You guessed it, when they're told to. That's all children do, listen and get bossed around and don't think for themselves.

"I'm tired of listening to other people, England. I don't need to be babied or told what to do. I'm old enough to manage on my own without anyone else making sure I wear clean underwear every day and brush my teeth. You need to just─ just let me be me, okay? And maybe 'me' can't stick around long."

"Is that what this is?" England said, rough and nasty. "Your way of saying you're leaving? That's so very like you, waltzing in only to skip right out."

"No, it's not like that at all. Sometimes people have to leave. Like, remember when I was little? You would visit only to be back on the boat a day or two later. And you had to leave. You had to do your thing, and even if that meant leaving me behind, that didn't stop you. Have you ever thought I need to leave?"

"Right. I see. This is a revenge thing of yours. You're leaving me because I had to leave you."

"Oh my God," America sighed, burying his hands in your face. "You are missing the point. Like, the point is here─" He slapped his hand against the table. "─and you are all the way in China or something. That's how frickin' far you are from my point."

England sniffed, his index finger tracing around the rim of his teacup. "Travel is so fast these days," he mused. "You can get on a plane and nip to another country and back in an hour or two. Not like how it used to be, with the weeks and weeks of sailing."

America nodded absently. There was a point hidden somewhere in England's words, a suggestion carefully woven in, but it wasn't hitting home with him.

"How about this," England said. "You go do your little thing, and come right back here. That's not too much to ask, is it? I would've come back to you in a heartbeat if I could."

"It's kind of an extensive something that I need to do," America said. "Let's leave it at that."

"So about Rupert─"

"I told you already, no dog. A dog is something I gotta stick around to take care of."

England didn't argue. He didn't frown or curse or scowl. The bubble of anger that had crept into his eyes simmered and died off. He took on the serene expression he always did when he was struck by a sudden, genius moment. It was a look America had come to dread.

"I'm getting Rupert," England said sternly. "You can stay here or come with, but either way I'm getting your dog."

* * *

America spent the day haunting England. It was a necessary evil. This was war now, a battle of the wits. England was dead set on America staying, willing to manipulate and pull the strings to make things work his way. The thought of staying any longer than he already had made America's heart hurt in all the wrong ways.

He could already envision their daily bickering, the mind games and the constant struggle for power between the two of them. England would tell him when to wake, how to comb his hair and carry on during the day. If America tried to fight back by saying he was a grown man, England would be quick to bring up the fact that he was living under England's house and had to follow his rules.

The dog was what would keep him from leaving. It was an anchor to keep America there.

At first America debated going along for the ride, feigning resignation until they got in the car. That was when he'd mention that, gosh, he did want some clothes. He'd take his time in the store, try on all sorts of things and lollygag. In the end he'd shrug his shoulders and sigh, claim that nothing fit right and they'd have to try again tomorrow. Maybe by then the shelter would be closed.

But England was smarter than that. Knowing someone for two hundred years taught you their tricks, and England knew all of America's. He'd see through it all and zip straight to the shelter. It was a pretty lose-lose situation, no matter how much America tried to mentally finagle it.

So instead he watched England's every movement, hawk-eyed and paranoid. When England looked at his shoes, America tensed. When England happened to glance at the keys to his car, America's heart slithered up his throat. Each moment was a concentrated practice in not losing his cool. Being a monstrous brat to keep England from bringing home the dog would only make him more childish in England's eyes.

But it was hard to keep tabs on England. It was hard to stay calm. It was hard to keep Russia from overwhelming his thoughts. They said you didn't know what you had it until it was gone, and America found that to be growing truer and truer as the day passed.

He missed how Russia would come up behind him, place kisses on the back of his head and nuzzle against his hair. He missed the sweet words that always came in soft whispers, the gentle touches the skimmed his side and skin. Most of all, he missed Russia himself.

There was a part of him filled with a cold, righteous anger. A part that wanted to wrap its fingers around Russia's throat and _squeeze_. It was the part that had slept, so deeply and soundly that it had slipped America's mind. Now it was stirring, groggy and weak but there, no longer smothered by Russia's constant, kind affections.

Like a spear in the side of the dragon, the headlines had woken it. Russia wasn't as innocent as he had seemed, hadn't been as perfect as he appeared. And America had been the one to play into it. He'd wanted to trust so badly, to think that Russia wanted him, _him_. Not his country, not what he represented.

That was all it ever boiled down to. Land and power and politics with a side of money thrown in.

Through it all, America wondered if things hadn't gone according to plan. If it was all a ploy for control on Russia's behalf, would he have been so gentle throughout? What had stopped Russia from using force, from taking his pipe to America and making him to sign his life away?

It was all too much for America to process, and for once when England offered, America accepted a cup of tea to steady his nerves.

* * *

America made it until two in the afternoon before England announced he was leaving, with or without America. He twirled his keys around one finger, smile small and cunning. There was a muted madness in his eyes America couldn't bring himself to look at. On the outside England looked better, all freshly pressed clothes and sleek shoes.

The wrongness was in the way he carried himself, in how his shoulders hunched and the edgy glances. It was in the mess of his house, the single sheet of his bed and the stale, musty smell of the rooms. Most of all, it was in the way he was as adamant about keeping America in his sights and America was about keeping an eye on him.

When America found he had to leave the room, England would inevitably drift in only a minute later, and their eyes met too many times for England's glances to be coincidental. He was so insistent, so dead set that America stay with him. So when America watched England open the door and tip his head, a plan struck him.

"You better not leave," America warned.

"I'll only be a bit, America, surely you can handle yourself long enough─"

"I'll blow this joint if you ditch."

England paused in the doorway. "Beg pardon?"

"Go on, get the dog if you really want it," America said. "But if you leave I'm not going to be here by the time you get back."

"Think you're clever, lad?"

"Only when I gotta be."

"Well I'm sure Canada won't mind visiting for a few hours while I'm out," England said, closing the door. His smile turned stiff and disingenuous, something akin to a grimace.

"I've decided Canada and I aren't really on speaking terms."

"That's nice, you can tell him that yourself when he comes over. He does miss you so very, very much. And he deserves to see you more often, don't you think? He'd been so good after all, letting me know when you popped up. I was beginning to think you'd slip right out of my hands."

America mirrored England's false smile, watching as he went for the phone and dialed. He only half-heard the conversation as he worried his lower lip between his teeth. Why was it so hard for him to leave? Why did he feel so bound by England's insistence that he stayed?

He was a grown man. He could leave any damn time he pleased. There was no physical barrier keeping him within the house. Sure he had no money, no place to stay, but he could manage something. It wasn't like how it'd been with Russia. There wasn't the fear of freezing in the night to stop him, the knowledge that the closest town was hours away.

What was he supposed to do when he left? Returning to Russia jumped to the front of his mind, but shied away as the thought of being free cropped up as well. He could ditch now, walk right out the door and do his own thing. Somehow he'd manage to get back to America, back to what America had become.

He could never return to the America that was, the one he'd left. The notion sent a cold pang through his blood, shivered in his bones. The land and the people remained, but the United States of America didn't. America ran his hands through his hair, shook his head softly as he tried to clear his mind. He couldn't even begin to reconcile the Russia he'd come to know as one who would change him at his very core.

But Russia had done that, hadn't he? Taken America from his home, from his cushy, careless lifestyle and thrown him into a house in the middle of a white wasteland. And somehow America had grown fond of it, had come to call it his home. He'd stopped thinking about how he got there, the fear and the anger that he'd suffered in the beginning.

He wondered how he'd ever worked past that, how he'd come to love Russia and forget what he'd done.

"England," America said with a weary voice, "have you ever─ have you ever had something really bad happen to you, and you mean to tell someone, heck, you want to tell someone, but you never get around to it? And then by the time you can tell them, it's like, not such a big deal anymore for some reason?"

"Can't you see I'm on the phone?" England snapped, putting a hand over the receiver.

"But I need to tell you─"

"Quiet down," England hissed before he turned his back on America. "Oh, don't you worry, Canada. You know your brother, always interrupting. Now what was it you were saying?"

America stared at England's back, any kind of desire to spill the truth fading away. Why had he thought England would understand to begin with? He'd probably find some way to pin it on America, say it was his fault in the first place for being out alone at night, or that he should have tried harder to escape. Most of all, he'd use it as proof that America wasn't old enough or mature enough to handle himself, that he still needed to be babied and watched over.

"Your brother says he'll stop by to visit tomorrow," England said when he hung up the phone. "He seemed surprised that you were still around. You wouldn't happen to know what that's about, would you?"

"Can't say I do," America said.

"If you say so," England said, hardly convinced. "Now what was it you wanted to speak with me about?"

"Oh, uh. I forgot," America said weakly. "I'm sure I'll remember later or something."

England cleared his throat, his posture rigid, frozen as he looked America over. There was something soft in his eyes, concerned and caring. It failed to translate to his face, to ease the thin line of his lips and the harsh furrow of his brows. When he stepped closer, it was stilted and short.

"I don't know why you've done this, or what's happened to you," England said. "But if you ever want to tell me, I'll listen. And I'm sure it hasn't been fun for you, and that we all make mistakes. I'm piss at all those fancy words that make people feel better, but I can try."

America stared on. Was England comforting him? Or at least trying to? Maybe this was supposed to be a moment between him and England, where the walls finally came down and they became equals. He'd spill the beans to England and somehow things would resolve themselves, neat and packaged like in a thirty minute sitcom episode.

"I won't be cross with you," England said, and that was when America closed up.

He'd heard those words so many times through the years. They were in his first memories, found themselves etched into conversations in times of peace to periods of war. Those were the words England told him when he wanted the truth, and was willing to coax it from America with false promises.

When America was still small and received word that England was returning, he'd tried to make tea. England always liked tea. But his favorite tea set was so very high upon the shelves on the cabinet that held it, and even with a chair America's limbs had barely brushed it. He'd leapt, once, and tried to grab. His arm went sweeping across the shelf and toppled the seat to the floor, and his heart seized as he heard it explode into a shatter of glass.

He'd held a funeral in the garden for it and prayed England wouldn't notice.

But England did, and when America feigned ignorance, he'd said those words. America fessed up, and England was more than 'cross.'

America fell for the same trick again and again until he was older, believing each time that England meant what he said. But then he wizened up, learned to keep his mouth shut or simply fib. And while he still bought into it from time to time, when England's voice was particularly kind, or his expression soft, America wouldn't be caught this time.

"There's nothing to tell," America said.

"There's always a story, lad," England said, taking a step closer. His arms moved at his sides, spread slightly as though he were welcoming America, ready to hug him.

America dodged to the left, giving England a wide berth. "I think I'm just gonna hang in my room," he said.

"You did that all day yesterday."

"No, I listened to you rag on me and did gardening yesterday. And I watched movies. Today, I'm only going to do the latter."

"Really, I don't know what to do with you sometimes," England sighed. "And don't think you can hole yourself up in your room all day, I didn't bring you here so you could hide from me."

"Well why am I here?" America asked as he paused. "Is there something you want from me? What do you want me to do? 'Cause we're doing nothing but wasting time now, England."

"Is that how you think of it then, America? Are you too big and tough, too much of a man to spend time with me anymore? Or is there someone else you're pining to run back to?"

America went numb.

"Is that it? All this talk about needing to go home, needing return to your work. Why now, America? You haven't been at your apartment in ages. We've been looking after it for you, you know. We never could figure out why you left your wallet. Maybe you thought you could start a new life with someone, get away from all this, but you can't. And it's too late to go back to how it was, America. It'll never be the same."

"Can you stop?" America asked. "If I'm stuck here, I'm going to relax, okay?"

"Relax all you want, America, but you've made your bed and you'll be sleeping in it sooner than later."

America rolled his eyes and made for his room, his pulse thumping away in his left ear. He hadn't even touched his bed, Russia was the one who made it. He changed the sheets and pillow cases and made it nice and comfy for America. Not that he'd bothered to ever mention it.

But England hadn't been entirely wrong. Things couldn't go back to how they were. Ever. There was no reset button to put things back. The United States of America was no more. It was a name on maps and in text books, fresh in the minds of those who had lived there. But that was all it was, a memory.

America flopped down in his bed once he reached his room, a boneless mass that bounced against the mattress. He didn't turn on the TV, or look out the window, or do much of anything. He instead stewed in his thoughts, had conversations that would never happen, where he was the smart one who knew what to do, and others looked up to him. He would be in control.

He wasn't though, and that was the problem. After centuries of staying on top of it all, poring over each newspaper headline and memo sent his way, he'd fallen out of the loop. He existed in another space now, where there was no freedom, but also no responsibility.

Only a small group of people held him accountable, people that shouldn't have existed. People like him, who were secret things that weren't spoken of, even by those who knew of them. The president and his aid, the occasional intern, none of them held him accountable.

America wasn't even sure how much power he truly held as a person. He wasn't sworn to any codes, hadn't taken any oaths with one hand on his heart and the other on a bible. He had input, attended meetings and made powerpoint presentations. How much of it mattered though, how much clout did he have? Most of the time he viewed himself as nothing more than a figurehead, a person who went through the motions but never accomplished anything.

Sure he'd signed on the dotted line for Russia, given his John Hancock a go without bothering to read the fine print. But how did that change things? He was only one person, and the same went for Russia. Their governments were the ones in control, the ones with the final word.

Maybe Russia had only done what he had to, worked his hardest to make things easier for America. Sure he could've mentioned it, given America a heads up, but that was easier said than done. There was no simple way to let someone know that, technically, they didn't exist anymore. And seeing as to how their relationship was still fragile and fresh, it only made sense that Russia would keep in on the down low.

America huffed and buried his face in his pillow. Everything was so up in the air, out of place. It made America's blood run hot, then turn ice cold, alternating between the two as his emotions tumbled together. One thing was for sure, he had to get out of here.

If it meant sleeping on park benches and using his charm for change, then so be it. He wasn't sticking around for any more of England's nonsense, his cut throat insults, words, and no nonsense criticisms. America wouldn't be around when Canada stopped by to babysit him, didn't want to look his brother in the eyes and ask why he'd called England.

The jury was still out on whether he wanted to go back to Russia. America missed him with a feverish intensity, something akin to an addict going cold turkey. And yet he could think more clearly without Russia around, without those big hands on his waist and those soft lips at his ear.

_People change_, America told himself.

England went from caring and kind to distant. Canada had gone from a brother to nothing more than a man willing to turn him in. Russia was the biggest change. He'd gone from the villain in America's nightmares, the one he was conditioned to distrust and loathe, to someone America wanted to map out with his hands, taste with his lips, and love with his heart.

A thought sprouted in America's mind, small and quiet but there. Had he changed too? Why would he be immune to it? There had been a time when he was close to Canada, strove for England's respect. He'd loved hiking and flying kites and being outdoors, soaking up the sun and hiking along dusty trails.

He couldn't recall the last time he'd done any of those things. Now all he thought about was Russia. Spending time with Russia, curled around his body in bed, fingers threaded together, legs dovetailed. Sitting with Russia as he worked, pen scribbling away as America sat beside him, ever the faithful dog. It was a little sickening to realize it.

How had he reached this point? When had to gone to nothing more than a captive, someone who constantly thought of escape, to nothing more than a kept pet, happy to be doted on and cared for.

Russia played on all of America's insecurities. He knew what words would tame him, kind whispers in the middle of the night, a sudden compliment dropped in the middle of a meal. He never grabbed at the flab that tended to settle on America's stomach, or called him 'soft.'

No matter how kind he'd become, it didn't erase the past. The fear and adrenaline that had surged through his veins as Russia came up from behind him, held that chloroform-soaked rag over his face. The memories of being locked in a room, unable to see clearly without his glasses were still fresh, still festered in his nightmares.

America went through his day on autopilot. He brushed his teeth without toothpaste, stood under the shower head until the water ran cold and only then remembered to wash himself, and put his clothes from the night before right back on. He flopped back in bed without so much as combing his hair, hardly caring when his clothes and bedding grew damp.

He was a grown man without control over his life.

While the world went on, America had handed his life over to Russia on a silver platter in exchange for love and affection and being _wanted_. He'd neglected the needs of the many for his own selfish reasons. He was tired of taking care of others, being the one who smiled and laughed and smoothed things over.

There'd been a quiet relief in America's blood while he lived at Russia's. It was buried beneath the initial fear and hostility, still remained even as he found himself coming to enjoy Russia's company, to look forward to it. It'd been the relief of not knowing. Ignorance was bliss, after all.

America stilled worried and fretted, terrified that the lack of his presence would be somehow catastrophic, that wars would start and people would die. But as time passed he found that he was only one person, a person with no power. He said and whittled away hours, enjoyed movies and food and being able not to think about meetings and conferences and socio-economic issues.

And traded freedom of responsibility for the freedom of his life. He wasn't sure he wanted to trade back now. He'd grown comfortable, used to having not to worry about anyone but himself and Russia. Those outside of the bubble weren't quite real in his mind, more like the characters in a TV show, people whose lives were put on hold the second they stepped out of the shot.

When there was a knock at the door, it hardly registered in America's mind. He grunted in response, body barely stirring. The hinges on the door creaked as it opened, following by the shuffling sound of stiff steps. He watched lazily as England entered, his head poking in first, tentative and careful. The rest of him followed belatedly, like an afterthought.

"Supper's ready," England said. "I made your favorite⌐ what did you do to your bed? Good lord, America, you've gone and soaked it right through. Good heavens boy, what've you done?"

"I took a shower," America said flatly, forcing himself to sit up, body protesting all the way.

"And didn't bother to towel off? Bleeding hell, there's still shampoo in your hair. Just─ just get up," England hissed, both swatting and grabbing at America's arm, pulling him to his feet.

America let himself be dragged back to the bathroom without a fight. He was done fighting, done with every step being a constant struggle. It was easier to go with the flow, go where others took him. That was the only thing that seemed to make people happy these days, control over others.

England took America's glasses and set them next to the sink as he ran the water. Winding the fingers of one hand through America's hair, England forced his head under the tap. The water was a cold shock, a jolt back into reality. America's muscles tensed as he gripped at the counter, water running in rivulets down his face as England took to scrubbing his hand, nails too long and touch too rough.

America's eyes went wide, wild and white for a second when England scratched against the spot of his scalp that had been slammed against the alley wall. He jerked away from England's touch, gritting his teeth and grunting. Rivulets of water streamed down his neck, soaking into his already damp collar as he righted himself.

"What's that bump on your head?" England asked, pulling his hand away.

"Nothing," America said. "Nothing, hit my head the other day. S'fine. Don't worry about it."

America grabbed his glasses and put them back on. England handed him a towel to dry his hair with, but America did nothing beyond draping it around his neck. His pulse echoed in his ears when England made his usual huffing and puffing noises, trying to adjust the towel while America rolled his shoulders to get him to stop.

"You can't so much as wash up properly or keep from knocking your head," England sighed, full and dramatic. "What is wrong with you, boy?"

"A lot," America snapped back. "You don't know the half of it. _I _don't know the half of it."

"No need to get uppity, I was merely asking," England said, his voice tight, guarded. "Now go eat your supper while I change your sheets. I've half a mind to send you to bed without any food, so don't dilly dally."

America didn't need to be told twice. He dragged himself to the kitchen, feet weary and numb, his head swimming. How was he supposed to tell England what happened to him? How was he supposed to tell anyone what happened to him?

He'd had the conversations a hundred times in his head, picked out perfect words, imagined the reactions of those he told. Their expressions would turn concerned, wide curious eyes and tender voices. There was never pity, instead plenty of well-expressed sympathy and promises that things would get better, that things would be alright.

Yet when America envisioned the conversations as real, a thing that would truly happened, his mind went blank. His carefully chosen words melted into mumbles, stutters without meaning. His confessions were under lock and key, unable to be revealed. One day, he decided, he'd be able to get it all out.

But when would that day come?

America took a seat at the table, his plate already made up, decorated by multiple forks and the usual cutlery. Apparently 'his favorite' was a mysterious brown lump flanked by veggies. He prodded at it, cut it open, scooted it around on his plate. The best he could figure was that it was meat. It was lukewarm in his mouth, chewy and tasteless with the texture of a sponge.

He slogged through the meal without making a fuss, going so far as to pretend he enjoyed it when England joined him. They ate without speaking, the scrape of fork tines against plates and the rustle of napkins dabbing at mouths their conversation.

There were still questions though, in the cant of England's head and the way he watched America. He spoke with stares and muffled coughs, by how he'd put down his fork and pat at his shirt as though he were brushing away crumbs. He wanted to know where America had been, who he'd been with, the person he'd become. He wanted to know why America was so different, but America had the same question for England.

Neither of them mentioned it.

England collected the plates when they were done, America mumbling his thanks as he tried to clear off the table while England batted his hands away. Silence fell heavy again when all was done, the two of them standing about with nothing to say or do.

"I'll be in my room," America finally said, edging away slowly.

"And I, in mine," England returned, fingers going to pinch at the bridge of his nose, as though America's few words were an irritant. He expected more from America, he always did. Whatever he said and did was never good enough for England.

America retreated to his room without a sound, peeling off his clothes and tossing them in the hamper. He found his suit, fresh-smelling and freshly-ironed, hanging in the closet. He pulled on his slacks, buttoned the jacket. His fingers were steady and he put on his tie and put on his shoes.

He lay down on his bed fully dressed, head propped up on a pillow, fingers resting on his stomach, fingers interlocking. In the back of his mind, where he still cared about what England thought, that measured the disapproval in his glances or the downturn of his lips, he wished things had gone better.

He yearned to live a linear life. For time to pass in neat, interesting chunks. Problems could be resolved in a half hour, dictated by writers. The boring bits would be skipped completely, fading to black before they could start. At the end up the day, relationships would be neatly wrapped, cut crisp and clean. England and America would see eye to eye and gain a mutual respect. There would be closure.

Except there wasn't. Closure was left for the end, the final page in a book, the last line of dialogue before the curtain fell. It was for when the characters ceased to be, lived on in imagination only. It wasn't something meant for him and England. As long as they both breathed and ate and lived, closure could never be something they benefited from.

Lost in his musings, America let his eyes close, thoughts melting into senseless, muted daydreams. The settling of the house, the creak of floorboards and England's steps faded away until they were nothing. The traffic dwindled, the scurrying of critters nothing but whispers to his mind. Life seemed a distant thing that paused for him in that moment as he slipped into slumber.

America woke twice that night. Once when England cracked his door open a fraction, his voice bodiless as he wished America a somber goodnight. The second time was when Russia came for him.


End file.
